Always Sunny in Colorado
by year-of-the-pineapple
Summary: When the boys accidentally reunite in Denver after four years apart, it's sure to be eventful. While Stan attempts to reconnect with an old friend, Kenny's only imperative is to get some. That is, if he makes it through the weekend alive. Slash and het
1. an unlikely beginning

"Happy birthday!" The raspy voice emanates from the side of Stan's bed, awakening him with a jolt. The first thing he sees are those teeth of his- slightly rotten, extremely wonky but always there; always smiling.

Next the stench of skunk weed hits him.

"Thanks, Ken," he smiles politely. His birthday wish right now is that Kenny would go away and wake him up a few hours later when he's had some beauty sleep, but living with Kenny is like having a four-year-old son living with you. A four-year-old who smokes a _lot_ of pot, that is.

"You look ancient," he chuckles, scratching his stubbly yellow beard as Stan groggily stretches out his spine, sitting up. "Hungover?"

"Extremely." Stan bemoans his room-mates existence, and his own too. Kenny is famously _impervious_ to hangovers. Apparently that's what happens when you physically perish from alcohol poisoning enough times in your late teens.

Stan eyes the poorly wrapped present in his hands. "Don't suppose that's a box full of aspirin?"

Kenny shudders. "If you want that much aspirin, you got bigger problems than a hangover, man." He shakes his head, tossing the present towards the bed. Stan's years of being a star sportsman in school fail him once again, and it lands heavily against his chest.

"Ow." He says, somewhat arbitrarily, picking up the present and giving it a good shake.

A few careful unwraps later, he finds himself face to face with what appears to be a Finding Nemo themed vibrating cock ring.

"Kenny. What- and I can't stress this part enough- the _fuck_?" he stares down at the god-forsaken thing. He briefly wonders why the perpetually-broke Kenny would bother spending money on such a thing. The thought occurs to him that it could be used and the gift flies out of his hands in horror.

His crooked-toothed companion sends him a vibrant grin of pride, picking it back up from the bed. "I know it's been a while. So I got you this, to compensate!" he pauses, assessing the look on Stan's face. "I stole it from Craig's. It's new!"

"Jesus, man!" Stan says with disgust. "If you think my dating life is that poor, you should have just put me out of my misery and shot me, already." He tosses the present aside. "Whatever. Thanks, I guess."

Kenny's grin remains firmly fixed in place, and Stan's got the distinct impression that there's something else, too. "What?" he says, unnerved.

"I got you somethin' else, man!"

_Suspicions confirmed._

"You gotta get out of bed for this one, though."

"Shit. We're not going to Vegas or something, are we?" he asks with narrowed eyes, understandably a little dubious.

Kenny laughs, as if this suggestion is utterly ridiculous. "The next best thing. We're heading to Denver for a weekend of booze, bitches, and… erm…" Kenny wrinkles up his nose in his efforts to conjure some alliteration.

"Breakfast?" Stan's stomach grumbles hopefully.

"Barbiturates!" Kenny finishes, clearly pleased with himself.

Stan chuckles at his friend. "I'm not sure barbiturates are a recreational drug, Ken," he chuckles. "Maybe… blow?" he says, after screwing up his face in thought.

Kenny's face lights up in excitement at the mention of the word. "Now _that's_ the party spirit!"

* * *

Stan's not really sure how Kenny managed to drag his sorry ass out of bed, let alone into a car for an hour and a half to drive to Denver, of all places. It was probably because he owed Kenny, big time.

Kenny, conversely, had recently come into a bit of money, which he planned to spend on hookers, booze and drugs in their state capital with his best friend. It was to be a fun-filled weekend, at any rate. And, as it turns out, rather more fateful than either of the two boys had expected.

The first thing that happened was Kenny's shitty car breaking down.

It wasn't dramatic so much as just a few weird engine sounds and then crawling slowly to a halt about two miles outside of South Park. Two miles might not seem like much, but to two hungover twenty-year olds in the freezing cold rockies of Colorado, it was a nigh impossible situation.

"I told you we should have taken my car," Stan bemoans, when they've reached a standstill.

"Your car has that weird burger smell at all times," Kenny retorts in his famous muffle. "Makes my stomach rumble, and I don't need that."

Stan _does_ eat a lot of burgers in that car, he has to concede the point. But he'll be damned if he's going to let Kenny go this easily. "Like you can talk- your backseat is _drenched_ in cum stains. And at least my car works!" He grumbles, folding his plaid-sleeved arms over his plaid-covered chest defensively.

Kenny snickers. "Hey man, those stains remind me of some of my best moments."

The top three of those moments which included:

3\. An expedient warmth-wank, when he was stranded in the woods at freezing temperatures, on a camping trip. It is worth noting that Cartman and Butters were asleep (or at the very least desperately pretending to be) in the front seats at the time.

2\. An ill-advised blowjob from his English teacher, Miss Mahoney. _Nice, _I hear you recite. His grade point average had never quite been the same after that little excursion.

1\. The loss of Kenny's own virginity, by none other than Kyle's first-love-turned-rampant-whore _Rebecca_. The fact he'd maybe SORT OF slipped her a twenty beforehand didn't shame it away from the top spot, though.

Needless to say, calling shotgun when riding with Kenny was of paramount importance.

But back to the matter at hand.

"What the fuck are we going to do?" Stan had just about managed to ask, when he spotted a sign for a gas station a few miles away. "We'll have to walk, and beg someone to tow us back. Then we can get my _far superior_ car." He enunciates, feeling petty.

Kenny swears in concession.

And so began the rather miserable trudge to the rather miserable gas station, which of course was run down and looked like it might be owned by some greasy old trucker named Luke, or something. I mean, Stan was just guessing- perhaps it was the fact that it was called 'Luke's' which lead him to that conclusion.

Or maybe it was just that everything in his life was one big old hick-town cliché.

Stan doesn't realise that he's just said that entire diatribe out loud until he finds himself pondering when he started saying words like 'cliché'. But it's not like Kenny's listening, he's too busy staring with intense concentration out the window at some blonde chick that happens to be filling up her gas.

"For god's sake, Kenny. At least wait until we get to Denver. You're out of control." Stan scoffs, laughing a little as he does.

"No, no," Kenny frowns. "I mean.. hell _yeah_. But also… I recognize that frizzy hair." Kenny elaborates. "That's Bebe Stevens, I swear. Ten bucks that's Bebe."

Stan slits his eyes a little and stares after her.

"Yeah, you're right." Stan grins, breaking into a jog to greet her. After all, the two of them used to be decent friends at school, while he was dating Wendy and Kyle was somewhat grudgingly dating the blonde. Besides, Bebe was one of those people who'd stuck around after high school, so it wasn't like they didn't bump into each other from time to time.

She clocks Stan as he's coming towards her and she smiles a little distractedly. "Oh, _hey_! How are you?" she pulls him in for a hug. "Long time no see. And is that Kenny McCormick I spot at your side?" she gives him a wave as he approaches, somewhat less rapidly than his counterpart. "What the hell are you guys doing all the way out here on foot? You must be absolutely freezing."

"We were heading to Denver, actually. We were going to find someone to tow us back to South Park so we could go and get Stan's car."

Bebe laughs. "How serendipitous. _I_ was just heading to Denver, to see my grandpa. You boys want a lift? It's only an hour and a half. No need to pay me for gas."

Stan and Kenny both share a gob-smacked look, in which neither of them can quite believe their luck, and hastily agree. Kenny calls shotgun, to which Stan is glad, because it means that Kenny can make conversation with Bebe for an hour and a half, while he could lounge and possibly catch a few z's in the back seat.

And boy, girl could sure _talk._

About twenty minutes in, Stan's regretting agreeing to the lift, because he's so sick of her shrill voice taking him on a journey through the lives of all their school friends.

"Everyone says that Red's stupid, getting married so young. But I think David is so _nice_, I'm just pissed that she asked Wendy to be the maid of honor, not me." Bebe pauses for breath but then immediately continues her stream-of-consciousness. "Ooh, speaking of Wendy- have you spoken to her at all, Stan?"

"No." he shrugs. Things hadn't ended well there, and there was no need to talk about it with Colorado's biggest gossip, of all people…

"Well, if you ever wondered what she's up to, I have her number and I'm sure she'd love to see you. She's in Denver this weekend, as well- as luck would have it. We were planning on meeting for coffee." Bebe's expression is one of smug satisfaction. "You boys should join us!" she exclaims, her hand lingering on Kenny's arm for just a smidgen too long.

Stan resists the temptation to pinch the bridge of his nose. Is there anyone they know that _isn't_ in Denver this weekend? He knows it's ridiculous, but right now it seems like the universe is telling them NOT to go on this trip.

He sighs. "Bebe, I don't think Wendy wants to see me," he explains simply.

Bebe's eyes narrow into tiny little slits and a ghost of a smile appears on her face. "Oh? I wouldn't be so sure."

_Ominous, _Stan thinks. He doesn't say anything on the matter, but a sinking feeling begins to take lodge in his chest.

When Bebe was hellbent on something, come hell or high water - it _would_ happen.


	2. a predictable reveal

After the second hour of hearing nothing but Bebe's prattling voice interspersed with some new age hip-hop, Stan's seriously considering opening the car door and making a break for it. With nothing to stare at out the window but miles and miles of anonymous highway and snow- _oh God, so much snow- _he starts to go a little loopy.

He's literally calculating how fast he'd have to roll to survive when Bebe saves his life.

"We're almost there, guys." She smiles at Kenny and then reaches her neck round to give Stan a look. "I'm not sure if you heard, but I asked Kenny if you two would like to join Wendy and I for coffee." She smiles serenely, and one look at Kenny's guilty face says everything: he's already agreed.

Stan sighs and nods. "Fine," he says through his teeth.

"Aw come on, Stan, I'm sure she'd love to see you."

"I don't know about that," Stan shrugs, remembering the very last time he'd broken up with Wendy. She wasn't the sort of girl to hold a grudge… but then, one had to remember the time she sent a teacher to the sun for so much as _looking_ at Stan, so… really, who knew with that girl? "It didn't exactly end that well between us."

Bebe squeals. "Well, now's your chance to make things up!" she winks flirtatiously at Kenny. "It'll be like a double date."

Kenny stifles a laugh and him and Stan share an amused look. They silently communicate the following via facial expressions:

\- _Should I tell her or should you?_

\- _Leave it. She'll figure it out._

\- _I can't believe she doesn't know. She's definitely hoping you're going to hook up with Wendy, dude._

\- _I know, I know. Look, whatever. It's Bebe, I don't care what she thinks. So much for gaydar, I suppose._

\- _True, man._

It was genuinely impressive what the two of them could convey just with a few choice looks.

"Erm, something wrong, boys?" Bebe asked, sugary sweet as she catches them glancing at one another. Kenny shakes his head, his smile stretching wide across his face.

"Not at all. I just got a feeling this weekend's gonna be a good one, man," he says, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfying groan.

"You always say that." Stan grumbles from his position on the backseat. "Besides, what's so freakin' exciting about Denver? It's a shithole."

Bebe narrows her eyes as Kenny berates Stan for being a misery-guts. "Hey. Doesn't Kyle live in Denver?" she asks Stan. "I swear I heard something from Wendy about him moving here…"

Stan's jaw clenches. "I don't know, man."

Bebe looks nonplussed. "Weren't you guys licking each other's asses throughout all of school?" she says, evidently confused.

"Yeah, well. We don't speak anymore," Stan replies quickly. He clears his throat, feeling awkward.

Bebe purses her lips, fixing her gaze to the road ahead. "Well. Too bad. That boy had a _great_ ass," she remembers fondly, a smile playing on her lips. "I don't know if he did squats or something, but _damn_ that booty-"

"Would you quit objectifying men with your feminine gaze already?" Kenny cuts in, mostly joking. Mostly.

Bebe and Stan snort in unison. "You're just jealous."

"No, I'm serious! We're not hunks of meat that exist solely for your pleasure," he says with a prim finish, closing his eyes sagely.

Bebe's eyes flicker to Stan. "Uh…"

Kenny pauses, grinning. "Although, say the word…" he purrs, and the entire population of the car groans in protest as Bebe shakes her head, lips pursed.

"Jesus, some people don't change," she laughs. "Anyway, guys. We're just about here, at my granddad's place. So this might be the last stop, I'm afraid. I'm going to park here and maybe later I'll get a bus into the city to visit him at the hospital."

Stan's eyebrows raise. "He's not here?"

"No, no. I'm watching his house while he's sick." She gives him a sad smile. "It's nice, though. I got a few days off work, and his place is pretty close to the city centre." She notes the slower moving traffic for the past few miles. "I'm going to meet Wendy, first." She says absently, her car grinding to a halt. Kenny watches with intense fascination as she yanks on the hand brake firmly. "Ew."

Stan nobly cuts in, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. "How much do you need for gas?" he asks, rifling through his admittedly sorry wad of cash.

She scoffs, shakes her head.

"No, no. I was going this way anyway, guys." She pauses, and Stan almost feels bad for hating on her so much on the ride over. A free ride was a free ride, after all. "Although…" Kenny looks eagerly up at her. "Your fee is coming to see Wendy with me." She concludes, a knowing smile playing on her features. "Just for a few hours. Pleeeeeeease…" she says, bringing out those puppy dog eyes and pouting her lips a little bit for good measure.

Kenny nods before Stan has a chance to utter his disapproval. Bebe makes a face of delight and opens the car door, stepping out with her shiny black heels on the tarmac.

"Ken," he says warningly, once she's out of earshot.

"Dude. It's fine. It'll be fine." Kenny soothes, holding his hands up defensively. "We came here for a good time. This is just an interlude. We're going to _have_ a good time."

Bebe knocks on the window before Stan can respond. "You boys coming out?"

The glass fogs up with Stan's protracted sigh.

* * *

Stan follows Bebe and Kenny's lead. Stan concludes that as well as immortality, Kenny possesses the superpower to lead almost _anyone_ astray, if he had the will to do so. Somehow the plan changes and they end up in a grubby dive bar instead of a coffee shop.

"Guys, it's midday. We'll look like alcoholics," he grumbles, tacitly ignoring the fact that he's never been particularly averse to day-drinking up to this point.

"It's your birthday!" Kenny remarks, throwing his arm around Bebe, to which she responds with a slight frown. "Have some fun."

"You didn't tell me it was your birthday, Stan," she notes. "Happy birthday! We need to celebrate properly. I'll buy you a drink or two, okay?" she flashes him her charitable smile, shaking off Kenny's arm.

He remains undeterred.

"Yeah, thanks, Bebe," Stan nods appreciatively "It's not a big deal, really…"

"Not a big deal!" Kenny scoffs, shocked. "Bebe, Stan hasn't been laid in almost a yea-"

"Shut up, dude!" he hisses. "Stop that!"

Bebe smiles. "Well, let's see if we can change that tonight! There's nothing better than having a wing-woman on your side, trust me!"

Kenny snorts. "I'm not so sure about that-"

"Argh!" Stan cries, cutting them both off from laughing at him, and taking a swig of his beer bottle. "When is Wendy getting here?" he demands.

"Somebody's keen," Bebe grins. Stan decides he's seen just about enough of her chemically-whitened teeth for one day. "Looks like your prayers have been answered, birthday boy!" she signals to the door, where a windswept young woman stands, scanning the bar for her friends.

Kenny lets out a wolf-whistle involuntarily. Stan nudges him. "Sorry, dude. It's just…"

Wendy was beautiful, all long shiny black hair and tight turtleneck; and of course, still sporting that same purple beret as ever. Kenny stares for a couple of seconds before Bebe waves her over, standing up to greet her old friend.

They share a brief hug and a cheek-kiss and Stan takes the opportunity to take a large swig of his beer, and then sticks out a hand.

"Wendy," he tries a smile. Luckily, her features are kind and she seems genuinely happy to see him.

"Hey, Stan." She pauses, delicately shaking his hand. "Is my memory going haywire, or is it your birthday today?" she asks, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

He nods. "Yeah, it is."

"Happy _birthday_!" she squeals. "It's so good to see you." She gives him the classic once-over. "I can't believe how much you've changed."

_What did that mean?_

"You're looking good, too," he nods back, a little wary.

"Thanks! And _Kenny_," she smiles. "How are you?"

"Can't complain," he shrugs. "We're in Denver for an epic weekend bender." He says almost proudly, as Stan shrinks in cringe at how _teenage_ that sounds. "Which is turning into a bit of a high school reunion, as luck would have it."

Wendy laughs. "Of course you are." She rolls her eyes with mirth. "Are you both still living in South Park?" she sits down on one of the bar stools. "Oh gosh, there's so much to catch up on. Where do we start?"

Bebe cuts in. "We can start with the fact that Stan here hasn't been laid in over a year!" she giggles.

Stan covers his face with his hands.

"Jesus Christ." He bemoans. "_Really_, Bebe?" Kenny shoots him an apologetic look, but Stan's having none of it. Kenny knew what an infernal gossip Bebe was, so this was really on him.

Kenny receives an elbow to the rib, to which he proclaims: "Fuck, ow_, dude!"_

"A year!" Wendy exclaims. "Wow. I guess there still isn't much of a gay dating scene in South Park, hey?" she shrugs. "Shame. Although you're bound to have more luck in a big city like this."

"Who says I _want_ to date?" Stan crosses his arms defensively.

Kenny rolls his eyes and makes a nodding gesture behind Stan's back, implying that Stan does in fact, very much want to date.

Meanwhile Bebe looks shook to her very core. "Hold the fuck up," she starts, holding a finger up to shut everyone up. "You're _GAY_?!"

"Honey, he's _flaming_." Kenny replies, giggling.

"As the day is long." Stan adds, a little _**drôle **_in his delivery.

"Christ, Bebe, keep up," Wendy laughs. "Why else would we have broken up in junior year of high school?" she asks, incredulous that her friend apparently didn't know.

Bebe looks like she's doing all sorts of math in her head, so Stan puts her out of her misery to explain. "Look, if it's any consolation- I didn't really tell anyone. The only people who knew in high school were Kyle, Kenny and Wendy." He pauses. "And later Cartman…" that last part of the sentence comes punctuated by a well-deserved shudder. "And… later, the whole _town_ knew…" he shrugs. "Well, some."

"How come?" she asks, dumbfounded. "I mean. You don't look very gay."

Stan does have to concede that about himself. He's not flamboyant, that's for sure. "What do gay people look like?" he asks, scratching his stubble. "Am I supposed to go around wearing contour and daisy dukes?" he shrugs.

"You could be like a new Little Gay Al," Kenny remarks with a laugh.

"Whatever." Stan chugs down his beer, deciding to ignore this. "Wendy, don't you want a drink?" he asks, just to get away from Bebe's spotlight question time.

"I'd love one," she says gratefully. He jerks his thumb towards the bar and indicates that they should deviate from their present company, so she happily obliges. As they walk out of earshot, Wendy hisses to Stan. "I'm so sorry. She doesn't mean anything bad, she's just out of touch."

He waves it off, good-naturedly. "It's fine. I live in South Park. It's nothing I'm not used to."

"Oh _God_. Yeah," she bites her lip. "And how is that?"

"Well, not great. After Cartman publicly outed me, _that fuckin' asshole_, I got a few bricks through my window, shouted at a few times. Well, my mom's window. After a while people kinda forgot, I guess. Which is nice."

Wendy nods, as sympathetic as she could possibly be from her limited perspective. Stan wonders if maybe now is a good time- _fuck it_, he's going to ask. "Are we good?" he wonders aloud, out of the blue. "After everything that went down in junior year, I mean." He says. There's a brief silence between them as Wendy orders a beer. The two of them stay by the bar, feeling like they might be about to have a rather private conversation.

Stan continues. "I'm… I'm so sorry it happened that way. I wasn't ready to deal with it at the time, and everything with my dad, and Kyle, and…" he trails off. "Basically, I'm sorry you got dragged into my catastrophic mess of a life. You didn't deserve that," he concludes, hoping vainly that the sympathy card may earn him some points.

To his mild surprise, she waves him off, indicating that it's not necessary. "Stan. _I'm_ the one that should be apologizing. You were having the crappiest time of all of us, and I was too immature to realize. All I could see was that the boy who I was obsessed with, breaking up with me." She shakes her head. "I wish I could go back and just be civil to you. _I'm_ the sorry one."

He stares at her for a few seconds, and then laughs.

"Pffft." The noise snakes it's way out his mouth, hissing and ugly. "Jesus. All this time, I thought you were flamin' pissed at me."

"I thought _you_ were upset with _me_!" she counters.

Stan grins, tipping his beer forward. "Well, then. Here's to not being pissed at one another!"

"Here's to non-evil exes." Wendy agrees, clinking the two bottles together ceremoniously.

There's a short and comfortable silence between them for a few seconds, as both eye up Kenny and Bebe but neither of them makes a move to re-join the table. Stan places his beer down on the sticky bar and sighs. "We should meet up more often," he states, wondering if maybe he's pushing his luck.

Wendy's eyebrows knit together, and she looks down at her drink. "I mean. That sounds good, but I'm not usually in Denver. I'm still studying at Harvard. I'm just here for a couple of weeks, and even now I'm absolutely buried under with work," she explains, idly pulling the paper label from her beer bottle.

"You're still at Harvard?"

"Law school takes ages, Stan." She cocks her head to the side. "I'm starting to wish I was Broflovski…"

Stan falters and Wendy notices; immediately corrects herself. "God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring him up…." she hesitates, curiosity getting the better of her. "You really aren't talking, still? After all this time?" she inquires.

Stan plucks his beer from the side and pours the last few drops into his mouth, savoring them. "Yeah, well…. you can talk about him. I don't care," he lies.

Wendy seems unsure. "W-well, okay... I just meant that he already graduated Harvard, with his business degree. Law takes significantly longer, and you earn less to start with," she sighs. "I'm jealous of you too, living the college-debt free life!" she says; a little too brightly.

"Did you see him a lot?" Stan ignores her conversation-changer, pushing his empty glass bottle away, and wiping his mouth. "Kyle?" Wendy nods wordlessly. "How's he doing?"

"You really want to know?" she asks, deciding to tread lightly. Stan nods. "Last I heard, he had some fancy graduate job here in Denver. Wanted to move closer to his folks over in Boulder, I think. Knowing Kyle's mom, that _definitely_ wasn't by his own choice." She snorts at the thought, and Stan nods in agreement. "We weren't ever _Super Best Friends_, don't get me wrong. But… we stay in touch." She wryly references their old saying and Stan's eyes move downward. "Are you ever going to tell me what he did to you?"

Stan shrugs. "Look, it's teenage drama now. It's forgotten," he tries for a smile, which is overtly fake.

"If you want, I could call him up; invite him along," Wendy offers, nodding towards Bebe and Kenny, who are giggling about something over in the corner. "Seems like we're having a weird kind of reunion, as it is."

Stan closes his eyes. "I'm sure we wouldn't have anything in common, anymore."

"Who cares!" Wendy exclaims. "Fine, fine." She dials it back a notch at his condescending look. "It's your birthday, your choice. But… let me know if you change your mind, okay?"

Stan nods, his gaze traveling off into the middle distance, distracted. "Shall we get back to the others?" he asks, just for sake of moving on from the other topic. "After I get another drink," he adds, importantly.


	3. a third reunion

In typical millennial fashion, the four friends immediately forget about having a few drinks and then heading home, and before they know it they've been out for three hours.

Stan barely realises how drunk he's become until he attempts to get up from his stool and instead careens forward into Wendy's lap. Luckily, he catches himself before he does any lasting social damage.

"Jeez," he slurs. "It's like, four in the afternoon," he bemoans, pulling his phone out from his pocket and squinting at the screen. "And I'm way drunker than I really ought to be."

"I don't know how you managed _that_. I'm fine… mostly," Wendy giggles at him and then glances over at Bebe and Kenny. She privately wonders to herself when exactly Bebe had crawled onto Kenny's lap, and when he had put his hand on her thigh. "Bebe," she says, interrupting their little excursion with a polite cough. "Erm, ladies room? _Now_?" her voice takes a sharper edge.

Bebe's soft, fond expression transfers from Kenny to Wendy and she nods. "Sure!" she replies, jumping up from Kenny's lap as her kitten heels clack onto the ground. Wendy shoots Stan a look that he's sure has some ulterior meaning, but whatever it is – he misses it entirely.

He turns to face Kenny. "Girls are weird, huh?" he jabs a thumb after Wendy.

Kenny is too busy staring after his lost lap-girl in abject disappointment to really notice. When Stan speaks he snaps out of his haze. "Huh?"

"How girls always go to the bathroom together. It's weird, right?"

Kenny shrugs, as if it couldn't possibly matter. "Sure, man. Whatever."

"I wonder what they're talking about," Stan muses.

"Who cares? I'm not a girl. I have no idea why they do things." Kenny takes a sip of his beer, and then belches loudly. "Hey. Are you wasted yet?"

Stan thinks about this for a second. He shakes his head after some deliberation. "No, man," he answers, trying his best to sound sober. "But then, it takes more than a couple of beers to get _me_ drunk."

Kenny smirks at his friend and then closes his eyes with a shrug. "Weird turn of events, huh?"

"Tell me about it. Are you gonna hook up with Bebe?"

Kenny shrugs. "If she lets me, hell yeah," he grins. "She's just as hot as ever, huh?" he stares after the ladies' room, wistfully. "Man, if only Broflovski were here to see what a fine chick he missed out on."

Stan's smile fades in a heartbeat. "Broflovski," he repeats, a shade quieter. "Y'know, Wendy mentioned earlier - he's in Denver. They stay in touch, apparently."

Kenny's face lights up. "Really?! Man, I'd love to see him again," he smiles, leaning back on his chair. "It's been too damn long."

"Not for me." Stan mutters.

"Nah, dude." Kenny shakes his head. "Broflovski's cool, right? We've all been friends for decades. I miss our acid trips together in high school. Guy was absolutely _insane_."

Stan frowns. That's not how he remembers Kyle, at all. He remembers Kyle always being the sensible one of the group, always the one who would take a stand when he felt morally outraged by something.

Which was most of the time, as it turned out.

"I just don't think he'd want to-" Stan starts, but noticing that Kenny's now fixated to a point just behind him, which stops him from talking. A quick glance round confirms his suspicions: that Wendy and Bebe have returned from the toilets, and Kenny's drooling over Bebe again. "Oh, for fuck's sake. It's like talking to a Neanderthal," he complains, clutching his forehead in annoyance.

"Hello, boys." Bebe waves, hand on one hip. Some sort of transaction appears to have been made in the toilets, because both girls emerge with a sense of purpose. "So!" she clasps her hands together. "We're going to grab something to eat. And then we're going to head back to my grandad's place and drink some more!"

Drinking is one thing that Stan does particularly well, and Kenny will do just about _anything_ to get into Bebe's pants, so they let themselves be led astray.

* * *

"Should we get the bus back?" Stan asks, full of greasy food and eager to sit down and digest what's in his stomach. Bebe is preoccupied with feeding Kenny chicken nuggets, which momentarily triggers Stan's gag reflex and forces him to turn to Wendy for some moral support.

"Dude," he hisses to her. "Have you _seen_ what's going on with those guys?" he whispers conspiratorially.

She's too busy texting to look up, but shrugs. "I know, it's _obscene_. Classic Bebe."

"Classic _Kenny_." Stan says, his expression inscrutable for a second, absorbing this. "You know… they're actually kinda perfect for each other, in a weird way," he muses, scratching his stubble in thought. "Not that it matters. Kenny's really only into casual hook-ups."

Wendy is still furiously typing something out on her phone, so Stan nudges her gently on the arm. "Uh… everything ok?"

She looks up. "Hm?" she says blankly. "Oh. I was… actually, I was just messaging Broflovski." Her face flushes. "Sorry."

Stan's expression clouds over again. He wonders why everyone keeps mentioning him today; it was getting old fast. "How come?" he asks tonelessly.

Wendy shows him her phone instead of replying verbally, going momentarily cross-eyed as she takes a loud sip from her straw.

Stan skims through it.

_-this deposition is making me want to kill myself. tell me how are you still alive through four years of this bullshit_

_-I just think about all the money I'm going to make!_

_-hah, you mean drowning in student debt_

_-Don't even go there, Broflovski. Besides, I have three more years before I have to think about that!_

_-good luck_

Stan looks up at her with a quizzical expression.

"He's being deposed right now. The company he works at are having some legal trouble, and I'm studying law," she explains. Stan nods vaguely. "I'm going to tell him that you're here," she says plainly.

"Don't!" Stan suddenly reacts in a fit of passion, making a move to grab her iPhone out of her hands- she deftly moves out of his way and sends him a knowing smile.

"Look. It's going to happen. Deal with it!" she waves her phone in the air precariously as he panics, trying to pluck it from her hands.

Stan makes a sulking face. "I don't want him to know I'm here!"

"Tough! He's going to." Wendy frowns, typing a few words into her phone. "Aaaaand… _sent_," she announces with a satisfactory smile.

Stan groans audibly. "What is it with you women and interfering!" he says, scowling and putting his hands on his head. "Do you ever think that some things are just left un-"

_Ping!_

"Oh. He replied. He must be pretty bored." Wendy pulls her phone out again.

_-Currently hanging out in Denver with Kenny and Stan!_

_-woah, random… say hello from me_

Stan narrows his eyes, scrutinising the text. "'Say hello from me'?" he ponders. "What on earth do you think _that_ means?"

"It means, he says _hello_," she sighs, stating the obvious. "Look, Stan. I'm going to ask him if he wants to join us. What's the harm?" she exclaims, amidst Stan's cries of anguish. "If he says no, he says no. If he's game- well, then, who are we to deny him the right to drink with us!" she says, getting ready to type a few lines of text.

Stan decides that sincere is the way to go. "Wendy, I am not joking. I _don't_ want to see Kyle," he tries, his face beet red but his eyes desperate.

She pauses, looking up from her phone. "I don't get it," she hesitates. "You guys were so _close_."

"No, you _don't_ get it. So just… quit it."

"You know that he misses you-" she starts, but he cuts her off.

"I don't care." Stan stays firm.

"So evidently you're pissed at him," she deduces, pointing and trying a different tack. "Wouldn't you just relish the chance to slug him in the face?"

Stan sighs. "Look, Wendy. If it's all the same to you… I'd rather not think about it," he says tactfully, avoiding the subject.

"No, Stan," Wendy shakes her head, not accepting his words. "You need to deal with this. Whatever it is. Kyle and you were super best friends for years. You can't just stop talking to each other without any reason. He probably doesn't even _know_ why-"

"Yes! He _does_ know!" Stan's angry, now. "And he's the one that stopped talking to me, first!" he says loudly, suddenly embarrassed that he's allowed himself to get so riled up about this. "Jesus, I sound fifteen. For God's sake, Wendy."

"Stan, but-"

"Fine! Do what you want," he concedes, not wanting to argue this point any further. He'd lost enough cool points as it was, he wasn't eager to lose any more. Besides, he and Wendy had just reconciled and it's not like he was keen to jeopardize that just yet.

"Okay," she says, unconvinced. "Look, I'm sorry to get involved. But really, I think that you two should talk things out. When are you next going to have an opportunity like this?"

Stan shrugs, embarrassed to say any more. "Let's just… let's just get back to Bebe's, okay?"

The two old friends look over at their respective friends, who are now touching noses and giggling like a pair of school children. Stan and Wendy wrinkle up their noses in perfect unison.

"Jesus." Wendy utters, disappointed. "How nauseating."

* * *

Bebe's grandad's place is surprisingly modern, for an older person living on his own. Within minutes Stan makes himself comfortable on the couch and sticks some soccer on the television. Kenny comes to join him before too long.

"The girls are making cocktails," he grins, plopping his body down with gusto. "Apparently, some _other_ girls might be joining us. Do you know what this means, Stanley?" Stan shakes his head. "I might be threesome bound!"

Unlikely, Stan thinks. "I'm glad you're having a good time," he says, his voice teeming with sarcasm. "Wendy won't stop bugging me about inviting Kyle." He leans further back into the couch, nestling his head into the soft leather. "Jesus tap-dancing Christ, this couch is glorious."

Kenny snickers. "Look, I'll get them to invite some gay dudes if you're gonna be all _salty_ about it."

Stan's serious expression breaks, and he gives a little, laughing. "No, thanks," he shakes his head. "I am so done with the gay dating scene," he says, knocking back another large gulp of his beer.

"That's lame, and so are you. There are plenty of eligible guys out there. Just look at me, for example."

Stan _does_ look at him. The boy is about his height, pretty average. He's skinny from not eating properly, but he's got a sort of wiry toughness about him which Stan supposes is from growing up in the poor part of the neighbourhood. Wonky teeth, but he works it to his advantage with a charming, crooked smile. That dirty blond hair. Dirty in both senses of the word. Maybe all three, Stan doesn't know.

"You aren't my type," Stan admits, truthfully. It's something he's said before, and he'll say it again. "Besides. You like tits too much to want to screw me."

"Amen," Kenny nods, closing his eyes in bliss. "And might I say, Bebe's are looking mighty-"

The doorbell rings and cuts him off. Stan's heart flies into his mouth for no good reason. Kenny jumps up from where he's sitting. "I'll bet that's my ladies!" he grins. "I'll get it!" he calls to the kitchen, where Bebe and Wendy are making some wildly disconcerting giggling noises.

Stan turns back to face the television with a protracted sigh out his nostrils. He tunes out the noises of clinking glasses from the kitchen, and the sound of hubbub coming from the front door, and lets his mind turn off as he pours the last few drops of his beer bottle onto his tongue with a bitter splash.

Against his better wishes, his ears pick up some sound as he hears someone open and shut a door with a click.

"Man, it's so crazy that you're here!" he hears Kenny's excited tones and he's forced to push something inside him back downward with a nervous swallow. Still, he refuses to turn his head round. He keeps himself occupied; keeps his gaze on the television screen steely.

"Stan! It's _Kyle_!" Wendy hisses to him, confirming what he already figured as she and Bebe go also to greet him.

Stan has to admit, he's sorely tempted to see how Bebe and Kyle will interact, so he does turn his head a little to overhear.

"Hey! Thanks for coming," says Wendy, polite and cordial as ever.

"Kylie!" Bebe exclaims, in a squealing register. "Wow! You look so different!"

"Do I?" he wonders.

That _voice_.

Shivers run through Stan.

"Yeah, you look good, Kyle. Not that you didn't look good before! I just meant, you know. You look a lot older, and, oh my God, your _hair_!" she gasps. Stan is curious, despite himself. "I can't believe it's been, what, four years? How have you been, what are you doing now? I'm still in South Park, can you believe it…?!"

Stan eyes up the porch window which he can see from where he's sitting; wondering if he'll look like a giant pussy if he makes a break for it now.

As with the car, he decides that it probably wasn't the best of moves to make. He stands up slowly, as if he's gained fifty pounds in the last few minutes and trudges over to where Bebe is gushing, offering up an awkward smile as he catches Kyle's eye.

_Woah_.

The first thing that Stan thinks is that Bebe is correct - Kyle's all grown up. It sounds childish to say, but he literally had. He was literally about five inches taller than Stan vaguely remembers from high school. That orange hair is cropped short; curls free of that old green hat he used to wear everywhere.

He's like… an adult. I mean, technically they all were. But it was so noticeable, with Kyle.

"Oh, Stan," Kyle fully interrupts Bebe's tirade. "Hello," he says, warm but definitely investigatory. He's wondering if Stan is still pissed at him.

There's an uncanny silence for a few milliseconds as Stan mentally weighs up the last few year of high school in his head, concluding with an equally wary. "Hey. You good?" he goes with, injecting a false sincerity in his tone.

If Stan remembers Kyle at all, he'll recognize the falseness in Stan's voice and will respond with his own.

"Great! You?" he replies, instantly proving Stan's theor.

"Yeah, yeah." He waves his hand, grateful when Kenny cuts in.

"You want a beer, dude?" Kenny asks, slapping Kyle on the back slightly too hard. "I got some buds in the kitchen, c'mon," he tilts his head towards the house and Kyle enters, pulling off his duffel coat to reveal… a shirt and tie.

"Did you work today?" Wendy asks, spying the outfit. "It's a Saturday" she tells him blankly.

"Oh, uh, I had some stuff to do in the office," he waves away.

"That's what you get working in Finance, I guess." Wendy says drily, sipping at the fruity glass that she holds between her fingers. "Come in, come in…" she pauses. "Bebe and I were thinking about playing a drinking game!"

"Didn't you need to visit your grandfather…?" Stan reminds her, perhaps a little meanly.

Bebe looks crestfallen. "Oh. Yeah. Well, maybe I should do that?" she looks at Kenny, as if he's going to confirm something for her, and then punctuates her sentence with a giggle. "Maybe later."

Nice, Stan thinks sourly as he brings his beer to his lips.

"Uh. What's the plan?" Kyle asks, seeming a little preoccupied.

"We should definitely stay here and wait for these 'other girls' to show up!" Kenny says with unbridled enthusiasm, earning him a wry look from Wendy.

"Mm. Bebe and I were thinking perhaps we could have some fun around here and then possibly head out to a club later? It depends. Stan, you said you and Kenny were planning a big weekend…? What did you have in mind?"

Stan realises that Kyle's giving him an odd look and he clears his throat to answer Wendy. "We were just going to hit some bars, actually," he explains.

Bebe shakes her head. "No, you've got to know the right places to go! I know the city, I can show you around!" she exclaims, clearly forgetting that Kyle is the only one who lives here. Meanwhile, the Denver-expert in question is boring a hole into the side of Stan's head with a vengeance.

"It's your birthday," he remembers, speaking quietly after a little moments pause. "Happy birthday!" he addendums, a little cheerier.

"Oh. Thanks," he says, suddenly embarrassed. "You… remembered?"

Kyle scratches at his hair a little awkwardly. "Yeah, weird…" he agrees with a shrug. "Would have got you something, only I was busy having no idea I would see you," he adds.

Stan doesn't crack a smile, only nods with a vague hint of recognition on his face and turns away.

Wendy clasps her hands together in an attempt to ease the burgeoning tension, and loudly exclaims. "Bebe and I made margaritas! Who wants one?!"

* * *

Despite himself, after a few more drinks Stan does admittedly find himself relaxing back into the atmosphere of their little group.

Bebe splits off and decides that it might be a good idea to visit her sick, dying grandfather after all.

Kenny is therefore less engaged with tits and more engaged with talking to Kyle; this takes the pressure off Stan somewhat.

He turns to Wendy and sips at his tasty cocktail.

"Damn. These are really good," he says, swirling the clouded liquid around the glass a few times. "I've gotta say. As a fourth member of the group, you're really soaring above and beyond Cartman in a big way," he laughs.

Wendy makes a face, as if the mere mention of his name is unpleasant to the ear. "I should think so! I bet Cartman never made you a delicious cocktail, did he?" she raises her eyebrows.

"Can't say I ever remember it," Stan shrugs. "He preferred stirring up lives, not stirring up drinks."

"Har-de-har." Wendy says, deadpan. "Very witty. I wonder what that oaf is doing nowadays, anyway?"

Kenny overhears them from the other couch, where him and Kyle are amicably chatting away. "Oh! I got his number. Shall I call him?!" he asks with a gleam in his eye as the room drops silent. "Could be a laugh?"

Wendy and Kyle make eye contact, their faces a mirror picture of abject horror. Kenny twigs and pushes his phone back into his pocket. "Perhaps not, then."

"I heard that he spent some time in prison," Stan pitches in.

"_Really_? I heard he worked for some shady government organisation," Kyle frowns. "I wonder if he's still as much of a twisted fuck."

"You don't _grow out_ of psychopathy." Stan replies, his voice coming across a little churlish.

"I always wondered if he really was psychopath. Y'know, diagnosable." Kyle says thoughtfully. "Aren't they supposed to be, like, emotionless or something? I remember him crying like a bitch when I punched him, once."

"Once!" Stan repeats with some amusement. "You were _forever_ punching him."

Kenny chuckles. "Oh man, that time that he got an A+ on that history paper… the one he wrote on why _Mein Kampf_ was a classic piece of literature…" he slaps his thigh. "_That_ was a fun week."

Kyle seethes with remembered rage. "Oh, _God_, he spent all that week boasting about it," he groans. "Did I really punch him then?" he asks, genuinely enquiring. "I think I might have pushed it out of my memory."

Kenny shrugs. "I can't remember. I think so? You were mighty pissed."

"Yeah, you did," Stan corrects. "When you found out you got a B on _your_ paper on _Das Kapital_." Stan weighs in suddenly, surprising Kyle. "We were in the English classroom. You almost threw a chair at him. I talked you out of it, and you slugged him in the face instead."

Kyle places a hand over his mouth in horror. "Christ."

"Yeah, you had quite the temper." Stan remembers, quirking an eyebrow upwards. "That wasn't the worst time, though."

"Hm?" Kyle cocks his head to the side.

Kenny's eyes turn wide like he's wishing he had some popcorn to munch on. He loved story-sharing time, especially when the topic was their childhood in South Park. That town spawned so many weird events, it was amazing they were still alive to tell the tales.

Stan clears his throat and continues. "You almost put him in the hospital. Senior year of high school. You broke his nose."

"Jesus. What _happened_?" Wendy asks, clearly becoming drawn into the conversation.

Kyle frowns, his memories becoming clearer in his mind. "Yeah," he says. "That's right." He ignores the others, staring right at Stan with a fierce intensity in his narrowed eyes. Stan doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to.

Kenny and Wendy share a perturbed look.

"I don't remember that one… guys, quit being so cryptic! What did he do?" Kenny tries. "Stan?"

"Kyle could tell you," Stan waves a hand, not breaking Kyle's hard gaze.

"It's not important," Kyle frowns, losing the staring contest which had cropped up between the two of them and averting his eyes. "Point is, he was a douchebag."

There's a small silence.

"Hear, hear!" Kenny cuts in, lifting his drink up in a 'cheers' motion and then chucking it down his throat with considerable gusto. "Wendy, you're going to have to show me how to make another one of those!"

Trust Kenny to dismantle the tension in a room.


	4. an angsty conversation

**This one's less funny and more... plotty...**

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

There's an old adage Stan's heard for situations like these. It goes like this:

_Nothing good ever happens after 3am._

He's partially inclined to believe it, although it's never stopped him staying out drinking until the early light of morning in the past. 3am tended to be the cut-off point after which things generally only went in one direction, i.e, downhill.

Perhaps that's part of the reason why Stan is keen to get going with this evening – because he knows deep down that if something good doesn't happen in the next three hours, well, then it wouldn't happen at all.

And he _needs_ something good to happen. Even if that good thing was just getting chicken nuggets later on.

He stares at phone and rubs his eyes in disbelief as he clocks the time.

"It's already _midnight_, you guys," he says to nobody in particular, swaying on the spot. "And we're still here! I want to go to a _bar_," he moans, the smirk on Kyle's face not quite escaping him. "I want to _driiiiiiink."_

"We can drink here," Bebe interrupts him, tearing her attention from Kenny for the briefest of seconds.

Stan grimaces in response.

Over the last four hours, Kenny and Bebe had become more and more sickeningly _into_ each other. At 6pm, they had been just hanging out like normal. At 7pm, Bebe had gone to visit her grandfather. At 8pm, they had been intensely discussing something off into one corner. At 9pm, they'd started looking very cosy on one of the couches. At 10pm, Bebe had moved fully into his lap and at 11pm; their conversation appeared to have devolved into some serious eye-fucking as Bebe straddled the poor boy.

Stan wonders what the next enthralling development will entail.

Well, not really. Mostly he just wants to get out of here. Hanging around a bunch of Wendy's feminist-vegan-warrior friends wasn't exactly his idea of a good night, and now that his drinking buddy has appeared to have been completed enveloped by Bebe's warm bosom – well, there was no hope left here for him.

He turns to Kyle with a look of desperation on his face. "Kyle, man. Let's just go to a bar," he says in a desperate plea.

Kyle raises an eyebrow. He a little surprised, mostly because Stan had been pretty explicit in not wanting to talk to Kyle all evening. "You're... speaking to me?" he asks.

Stan runs a hand through his black hair, forced to reply. "... I guess I am," he shrugs. "Look, man, if I sit next to _this_-" he jerks a thumb towards the nauseating couple directly to his right- "too long - I'm afraid that I might need lifelong therapy,"

Kyle stares at Stan, taking in his seating situation with some amusement. "If you stay still enough, maybe you'll become part of it," he says with a grin.

Stan face displays an array of emotion, the most notable of which is abject horror. "Kyle, _save me_." His voice takes on a tone of absolute sincerity.

Kyle smirks over at his friend. "Sure," he agrees. He twists himself round and calls out through his hands. "Yo, Wendy!"

"What's up?" she emerges from the kitchen with a friend hanging off her arm and glass in hand. "Are you guys all okay?"

"Er, yeah." Kyle rubs his hair awkwardly. "Stan and I wanna get out of here. You coming?"

Wendy looks around at her party guests and wrinkles her nose up when she reaches _The Bebe and Kenny Show_. "I think that would be for the best."

* * *

Stan really should have known better than to go out drinking with a group of tipsy women and someone who he's trying to avoid.

"So, _Stan_," A girl whose name he vaguely remembers as ending with '-any' sidles up to him. "You gonna buy me a drink?" she flutters her lashes.

For a second, Stan really does consider it. After all, it's been a while since he's had any male action, why not expand his dating pool? After a brief consideration, however, his morality gets the better of him. And his empty wallet; that too.

"Probly not," he murmurs, taking another swig of his cheap beer. "I'm broke," he adds. "Sorry."

She pouts in disappointment. "But… I'd make it worth your while."

Stan wonders if all hippie chicks were this easy. "Broke and _gay,_" he specifies. "You're really barking up the wrong tree." He pours the remaining few drops of his beer into his mouth and slams it down on the bar side, making heavy eye contact with the bartender. "Yo, dude," he beckons the bartender over. "Another lager."

The bar they ended up at itself is nice, if a little pretentious. It's one of those hip and fashionable places where the walls are covered with music memorabilia and newspaper clippings; the seats are all made from reclaimed leather and the cocktails are all upward of 10 dollars.

Not Stan's usual kind of place, but then, he'll drink anywhere that has booze.

The bartender hands him another pint with a smirk and Stan stares at it. "Thanks," he says, immediately bringing it to his lips. Of course the beer _had_ to be an obscure IPA brewed by some local hipster in his garage, Stan thinks irritably.

He's so consumed by this thought that he almost doesn't notice the rather attractive bartender staring at him.

"That's your third beer in thirty minutes. Don't you think you should slow down?"

Stan's face burns hot. "You make it a habit of shaming your customers about their drinking habits?" he snaps back without a thought.

The bartender holds his hands up defensively. "Hey, man, just wondering if you were doing okay."

"I'm better than okay. I'm _drunk_," Stan seethes through his teeth. "And since when do bartenders care whether customers are okay or not?!" he demands, hearing snippets of his father in his own voice and cringing inwardly. He's in the process of mentally reminding himself not to start lauding 'I thought this was America' when the bartender drops him a doozy.

"Only when said customers are cute," he delivers back with a smirk.

Stan's floored for a second, but he recovers quickly. "Well, that's not very professional of you."

"I'm an opportunist, sue me," he laughs back as Stan watches, transfixed, as he dries a wine glass with a dish towel.

Stan's about to offer some other snarky retort when another voice cuts in.

"Who's suing who?" Kyle approaches from behind where Stan's leaning and cuts in. "Because I can _relate_."

"You're being sued?" Stan asks, agape. His previous conversation with the barman is temporarily forgotten. "By _who_?!"

"Well, my company is being sued. My department. For fraud," he grimaces. When he catches a look from the bartender, he frowns. "It wasn't _me_!" he says defensively. "Jesus. For a bartender, you're pretty judgemental."

Stan snorts and shoots the guy a sympathetic look. "Tell me about it," he replies. "You managed to escape from Wendy's friends, then?" he asks amicably.

Kyle shudders, chancing a glance back at them. "Man, I always knew Wendy and Bebe were kinda into the hippie thing, but those girls are… something else," he looks around at the girls as he speaks. He turns back round and briefly motions to the bartender, who is busy pretending not to listen. "Could I get two double jack and cokes," he says, before facing back to Stan. "What, dude? They're not both for _me_."

Stan cottons on that Kyle's just bought him a drink and suppresses the urge to smile. "Thanks, big spender," he rolls his eyes. "I'll finish my beer first."

He _must_ be drunk, he thinks, if he's trying to flirt with Kyle. There's an awkward silence, which Kyle eventually breaks.

"So, uh," Kyle starts. "This is turning out to be a kinda weird night, huh?" he leans back against the bar top and scans the place. "Not exactly how I expected my evening to go."

"One of Wendy's friends tried to hit on me," he laughs. "She didn't have much luck, I'm afraid."

Kyle smiles mirthfully. "Well, you don't dress gay."

"I don't dress gay?" Stan lets his mouth fall open. "That's the most homophobic thing I've ever heard. How do 'gay people' dress?" he asks in horror.

Kyle shrugs and reaches toward his friend, rubbing a little piece of Stan's shirt fabric between his fingers. "Better than you. I've never seen any of the guys on queer eye wear plaid flannel," he laughs, taking a sip from his glass.

"Whatever," Stan falls short of agreeing with him, and instead raises a brow. "How did you expect tonight to go, then?"

Kyle shrugs. "Probably catch a movie with Lauren and then fall asleep before 9pm," he chuckles and thanks the bartender after being slid over his drinks. "Oh, the exciting life of a corporate drone."

"Really? I totally imagined all coke and strippers," Stan smirks with a cocky tip of his head.

"Oh, well." Kyle scratches his head sheepishly. "That's just on Wednesdays."

"Hardcore," Stan derides.

"What can I say? I guess even the wolf of wall street needs an early night sometimes."

Stan snorts and fiddles with his glass, remembering something. "Oh. Is this… _Lauren_ your lady-friend?" he asks childishly, waggling his brows in time. "Do you live together?" he sits down on a bar stool and swings his legs to the front in a dramatic motion.

"Yeah, and no," Kyle answers swiftly, not going into any more detail. He doesn't follow suit in sitting down but instead his gaze drifts off into the middle distance. "What about you? Any, erm, _man_-friends?"

Stan's ears burn a little red as he realises that he's never really properly discussed this side of him with Kyle before. Well, of course, _once_. But that didn't exactly go to plan…

He notices the bartender listening in, and smirks, trying very hard to shift his mind's attention on something less depressing.

"No," he says, trying to project confidence. "I guess I'm still _looking_," he shoots the bar guy a strategic look, which Kyle doesn't miss.

Kyle blinks twice, once at Stan and then once at the bartender. He shrugs, taking a gulp of his brown sparkling drink and shooting Stan an amused look. "Alright, alright. Good luck." He laughs. "I'll leave you to it."

Stan's gaze lingers on his old friend for just a few seconds as he saunters away, his heart sinking in his chest.

He realises with a jolt that Kyle had just wanted to talk to him. He pours more of the bitter liquid in his glass into his mouth, feeling like an ass.

* * *

"I'm just saying," River sidles into Kyle's arm. "I think that you'd look _good_ in hemp."

Kyle coughs into his fist and sidles decidedly _away_. "Uh… thanks. A suit made of weed. Great idea. I'll pitch it to my boss."

"Ooh! Ooh!" Sara jumps in. "I know just the place for you. My friend has a little place in Boulder where she makes hemp suits for business-y people."

Wendy snorts with laughter. "Yeah, River, and maybe I'll just show up to court in a kaftan. That'd go down well, don't you think?"

"I was seriously considering wearing only a fig leaf to my deposition," Kyle adds with a chuckle.

River giggles into her hand. "You totally should. You'd _definitely_ win." She grins.

Wendy frowns. "Erm, I'm not sure you can _win_ a deposition…" she grimaces. "And I seriously don't want to picture you in nothing but a fig leaf, Kyle. Gross." She wrinkles up her nose and shakes her head. "Actually, I wish to exit this conversation. I better go find Stan, I don't know where he's gone."

She stands up, and Kyle shoots her his best 'don't leave me alone with these people' look of horror.

She ignores him with a smug aura and wanders over to use the ladies' room. She accidentally bumps into a large man on the way, apologising profusely for knocking him.

"Ay! Watch it!"

That _voice_.

Her blood curdles.

She _knows_ that voice.

"..._Cartman_?"

"Wendy, you dirty hippie," he greets her with a nod. "Mind telling me why everyone decided to have a reunion without _me_?"

Wendy's brow furrows intensely and her heart drops to the floor. "How did you even find out…?"

Cartman shoves his phone in her face, lit up with a picture that one of Bebe's friends had taken in the group, tagging people – with the location set to visible. "You assholes!" he shakes his fist, reminding Wendy somewhat of Officer Barbrady.

Wendy feels her palm make contact with her face. "Look, it happened by mistake," she begins to utter, before she stops herself. "Urgh, why am I even justifying this to you…? Even if we _had_ invited you, you would have called us all dirty hippies and refused to come along!" she glowers, balling her fists. "Besides. I didn't know you were in Denver."

Cartman shakes his head, letting his floppy brown hair hit his sweaty forehead. "Nuh-uh. At least _one_ of you knew I was in Denver." His eyes narrow. "Where is that that sneaky Jew…" he makes a motion as if he's about to storm over to where Kyle sits chatting, and Wendy holds him back by his shoulders.

"Woah, there!" she says in a soothing voice. "If you stomp over there and accuse him, we'll _all_ leave and you won't get to join in." she tells him diplomatically, wondering why the hell he wants to join in anyway. "If you're at least a _shred_ polite, you can sit and have a drink with us. _One drink_. Okay?"

Cartman's scowl fades. "God, you're an insufferable hippie," he says under his breath, a calming finger on his own forehead. "Whatever."

* * *

Meanwhile Stan has spent the last forty minutes ordering drinks in a thinly veiled attempt to continue the flirtatious conversation he's having with the bartender – whose actual name, he's since found out, is Alex.

"Shouldn't you really be serving other customers?" Stan remarks, noticing that some people appear to be frustratedly waiting in line for drinks which are taking far longer than they should.

"I serve in order of cuteness," Alex shrugs. "Shouldn't _you_ be hanging out with your friends? I thought you said that you hadn't seen them in a while, or something," he remarks drily. "Or don't you care?"

Stan runs a hand through his dark hair and sighs. "Yeah, but. _They_ don't put out."

"And you assume that I do…?" Alex raises a brow, but he's smiling.

"I like my chances," Stan grins, circling his finger suggestively around the rim of his glass. He takes a sip of the luminous fluid, and then makes a face of disgust. "Jeez. This drink is intense. What is this?" he points down at it. Stan had ordered the strongest thing on the menu, and this had been delivered.

"Absinthe," Alex laughs mirthfully. "Which makes me think that unlike me, _you_ probably won't be putting out tonight."

Stan waves him away, drunkly. "You don't know me. I can handle my liquor."

"I can see that." Alex raises a brow. "Tell you what… if you manage to stick it out until around 3am, I'll let you handle more than just-"

"EXCUSE ME!" a lady's voice shouts from across the bar, interrupting whatever innuendo Alex was about to down. "I've been waiting for my maraschino daiquiri for _ten minutes_!"

Alex sighs. "Duty calls," he shrugs. "Offers on the table."

He saunters away.

Stan blinks and nods, sending his companion off with a drunk two-fingered salute.

He checks the time again and realises that it's nearing 2 am, so he stands up from the bar stool with a little difficulty.

"Jesus, I _am_ drunk," he whispers to himself as the bar spins around him. He stands still, waiting for the room to become static again so he can locate his friends. Even this small feat takes him a sorry amount of time, but eventually by placing one foot in front of the other he manages to reach them without making too much of an ass of himself.

"Oh, hey." Kyle smiles. "How'd it go?"

"Hm?" he looks up, a little dizzy. "Very well. How are you?"

Kyle frowns and catches on. He may not have seen Stan in a couple years, but could always tell when somebody was blackout drunk. "Sara, you mind letting Stan sit down for a second?" he asks, and Sara does so politely, making way for a slowly swaying Stan Marsh to all but collapse into the soft leather armchair. "You need some water," he says factually, and stands up to walk over to the bar.

When he gets there, he finds that he ends up waiting ten times as long as Stan was waiting to get drinks, and even when he does eventually get asked – the bartender shoots him a glare.

"Look, can I get some water? Like, just from the tap?" Kyle drums his fingers against the bar side impatiently. "And maybe... stop letting him buy drinks," he adds a little judgmentally, his eyes flickering back to Stan for a second.

Old habits die hard, he supposes.

The bartender narrows his eyes at Kyle. "Sure," he laughs. "So are you his guardian, or do you just want to get into his pants?" he remarks with a fair amount of sass.

Kyle's eyebrows twitch downwards. "No, I don't want to get into his pants. We're friends."

"Yeah, he's been telling me all about that. Haven't seen each other for four years?" the guy shakes his head. "You sound like some friend."

Kyle's expression turns to one of genuine displeasure. "He's a borderline alcoholic." Kyle's face is hard. "Or… he used to be," Kyle turns back to glance at Stan inquisitively. "I'm kind of worried about him," he adds, almost talking to himself rather than to the bar man.

The bartender's eyebrows shoot up and he emits a gasping noise. "Oh, _shit_. Shit, I'm sorry. I had no idea."

"It's fine, man. Just… be careful." Kyle coughs. "And, um. Maybe don't mention that I said that," he adds, pondering the fallout that would occur if Stan knew he was actively cock-blocking him.

"Are you guys staying for a while?" he asks a little nervously, sliding the glass of water over to Kyle with knitted brows. "I'll make sure he sobers up."

Kyle shrugs. "I don't know." He takes the glass and sends the man a firm nod. "Thanks."

* * *

When he gives it to Stan, he expects to be met with thanks. Instead the boy glares, _glares_ at him. "Stop mothering me!" Stan growls.

"Just drink it," Kyle tells him, tiredly. He really isn't in the mood to babysit angry-drunk Stan right now.

"No," Stan folds his arms across his chest, akin to a twelve-year-old having a tantrum.

"Come on," he groans. "We're not in high school anymore, okay man? Just drink the fucking water. You're pissed." Kyle's body language is irritated, that's for sure.

"Stop being such a goddamn _bore._" Stan growls, more an attempt to rile Kyle up than anything else.

It works.

"Maybe I would, if you'd actually be fucking responsible for once," Kyle scowls, tensing up. Around them, the girls share looks and utter some excuse before sidling away, leaving the two boys alone to have their argument. Not that it matters, because they were clearly about to have this out no matter the company.

"God, you're always so superior, aren't you?!"

"Only when you're being an idiot!"

"You don't even know me!" Stan spits. "This is the first time in four years that we've seen each other. And even now, you can't help but _lecture_ me," he pauses. "Ever considered that just because you went to college out of state, it doesn't make you better than the rest of us?"

"I _do_ know you," Kyle counters. "I know that you're an idiot when it comes to alcohol," he raises an eyebrow. "What, you thought I would just forget that time that you-"

"That was four years ago!" Stan cuts him off furiously.

"Oh, because you've changed _so much_…?" Kyle says sarcastically. "For fuck's sake, I'm just trying to… I'm just… I'm worried about you!"

"So worried that you wouldn't even speak to me after high school?" the words fly out of Stan's mouth, and as soon as they do, he wishes that they were back inside.

"I'm sorry about that!" Kyle splutters, raising his hands defensively. He can't help but feel that this conversation is going straight to hell, but he can't help but continue it anyway. "I _told_ you I was sorry." There's a pause. "Is that why you won't talk to me? Because you're still bitter about that? You _know_ why-"

Kyle stops mid-sentence and freezes still, his eyes trailing off somewhere into the bar.

"What?!" Stan demands, his voice itching up a few decibels.

"No, no, no, no, no. _No_."

"W-what?" Stan's tone turns to confusion as Kyle mutters to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to shield from an oncoming headache.

"Dude, _Cartman _is _here_," he hisses. Every trace of their original conversation forgotten, Stan's expression morphs into one of terror as he, too, spots the fascist blob speaking to Wendy. "Ok, ok. Forget your water, let's get the fuck out of here," Kyle quickly stands up and dusts himself off.

Stan, too, stands up with haste as the two men rush to locate their jackets and shove them on. Kyle takes a second trying to find his – must have gotten kicked under a chair, or something – and Stan pushes him on the arm. "Just leave it, he's coming over," he hisses.

"Urgh, fine," Kyle agrees and they funnel out just as Cartman and Wendy approach their table, Stan almost tripping over a chair as they do so.

"Where are you going?" Wendy calls after, her voice disappointed.

"Uh. Out for a smoke!" Stan quickly lies, without turning his head. They fast-walk out of the bar door and enter the street outside, amidst the cold wind and a strange look from a bouncer.

"Jesus." Kyle grimaces, shivering from his lack of coat and an errant gust of wind. "Oh God, we can't just _leave_," he laughs, hiding behind the bouncer with a mixed look of horror and amusement. "We're trapped."

"Christ, I'm too drunk for this," Stan comments, pinching the bridge of his nose and pulling a small cardboard box from his pocket and sliding a cigarette out.

He places the it gingerly in his mouth, pausing when he notices Kyle staring at him. "What?"

"You mind sharing? I'm freezing."

Stan shrugs and passes him one, lighting them both up and leaning against the exterior wall of the bar as he inhales the cigarette smoke with a thoughtful glance back at Kyle. "I didn't know you smoked."

Kyle stares up at the sky with a protracted exhale. "Yeah, well. I guess we don't really know each other any more, like you said."

"Hey, man, I was just…"

"It's fine." Kyle grits his teeth. "It's my fault, anyway," he continues. "You know, I still think about that, about high school. How everything finished with us." There's a pause. "I was a colossal dick to you, and I'm sorry."

Stan looks over at him coldly. "Yeah, well. You made your choice."

"And I feel badly-"

"You can't change it now."

"Why not?" Kyle probes, against his better instinct.

"Because! I _needed_ you back then! When my dad died, and the whole _town_ was against me, and Cartman put up those stupid posters!" Stan explodes suddenly. "When my life was going to shit, and my best friend wasn't even _talking_ to me!" he continues. "You think I need you now? I'm fine, dude. I got a job, and I live with Kenny, and everything is _fine_." He hesitates. "And your apology is useless."

Kyle's expression stays level. "I was a dumb seventeen-year-old," he explains. "What can I say? I guess Cartman's homophobia got to me." He shudders. "But Stan, I _never_ meant for him to find out."

"Right, and it was so much worse for _you_, wasn't it?" Stan kicks the ground, earning another strange look from the bouncer, who probably knows too much already. "Did you forget? You're straight, dude. _I'm_ the one that was outed. By _you_." He throws his hands up into the air. "God. I… I…" he suddenly feels a little dizzy – maybe it's all the drunken shouting – and presses his hand to his temple.

"Are you alright?" Kyle frowns, taking a step towards him.

Stan sucks another lungful of nicotine into his body and nods, stabilising himself. "Yes," he sighs. "Jesus, I don't need all this drama."

Kyle's mouth twists into a smirk. "Then… be friends with me."

Stan glowers. "That's the lamest thing you've ever said."

"Even lamer than, 'I think it is the nicest hat I have ever known'?" Kyle taunts and Stan growls at him. "I don't think so. Or 'you're my super best friend'? What about that?" he snickers.

Stan rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well. No wonder Cartman thought we were boning."

"Even the bartender seemed to think we were," Kyle muses, glancing back through the doors but unable to see through them. "Some things never change."

Stan's heart drops a bit. "The bartender? _Alex_?!" he asks, mortified. "Oh my God."

Kyle snorts and sucks on his cigarette. "Relax. I didn't realise you two were on a first name basis. Anyway, I told him that we weren't."

"Shit, I think I might have majorly embarrassed myself in front of him."

"Who cares?"

Stan shoots him a meaningful look, and Kyle raises his hands. "Whatever. I think you could do better."

"Oh my God, just because we're friends again doesn't mean you get to speak about my love life. Or my sex life. Or… my life, period," Stan concludes with a frown.

"We're friends again?" Kyle hones in on the wrong part of the sentence and his faces lights up. "Sweet, dude."

Stan shoots him a funny look but doesn't answer the question. "Should we go inside?" he asks, finishing his cigarette and flicking the remains onto the ground. "Face our destiny?"

Kyle grumbles as he follows Stan through the doors. "I really _could_ live without that coat, y'know."

"It's fine," Stan hisses back. "Besides, he's probably matured-" Stan begins to say, but something - or someone- cuts him off.

"Ay! Guys, _guys_. I just thought of a joke! A jew and a faggot walk into a bar…? Anyone know this one?!"

Kyle's face flushes red with anger and Stan swears under his breath.

Or not, then.


	5. a melodramatic exit

**This chapter was brought to you by... 'procrastination from writing my undergrad thesis'**

* * *

"Cartman…" Kyle says warningly, reaching up to massage his forehead with his hand.

"_Relax_, Jew. It's called a joke. Your people know all about those, or so I hear."

Wendy glares at Cartman. "You said that you were going to be nice," she hisses.

"That was a _compliment_!" Cartman grumbles, but he doesn't argue the point any further, choosing instead to let Kyle and Stan sit down in the group in peace. An uneasy silence settles on the lot of them, and Wendy clears her throat, about to break it, but Cartman beats her to the punch. "So where's Kenny?" he asks.

"Getting laid, probably," Stan answers, forgetting to hold his tongue.

Cartman looks up, sharply. "What? That son of a _bitch_! He's the only one of you I even remotely _like_, and he's not even here?!" he rages.

"Blame Bebe and her womanly wiles," Stan drawls, holding his hands up to his chest to mimic cupping his breasts. "Besides. Why the fuck are you even here?" he asks, feeling his head swirling as he leans into his hand to steady himself.

"Thought I'd join the party that you _cunts_ didn't even invite me to."

The group flinch at the hard 'c' in unison.

"This wasn't planned, asshole," Kyle retorts quickly.

"How was _I_ supposed to know that!" Cartman throws some beer back and leans backward in his chair as Wendy eyes him a little cautiously.

He's changed, she thinks privately. Not mentally, but certainly physically.

He wasn't that chubby round rude little boy any more. Still overweight, yes. But… he seemed to have grown into it. He was built wide and stout, like a tank. He was no longer without some muscle underneath that fat.

Wendy finds her expression playing a ghost of a smile as she notices that his brown tufts of hair are just as soft and floppy as ever; his eyes just as warm and hazel-coloured. His innocent face ever a complete foil to that harsh, abrasive personality that made him hated by so many.

"Come on, guys. Let's all be civil," Wendy finds herself saying, once again playing the voice-of-reason to the group. "We're adults."

Kyle could vaguely be heard muttering something akin to '_some of us, anyway_' but before Cartman can snark back at her, Wendy jumps in to save the day. "What have you been up to, anyway?"

Cartman shrugs. "This and that. I worked in advertising, for a while. As luck would have it, I'm pretty good at manipulating people. I got fired after too many employees complained about me. Fuckin' snowflakes, man…" he curses to himself, looking up to see three pairs of expectant eyes looking back at him. "Oh, uh. Then I moved to Denver. I worked on the streets for a while. I guess you could say I was a con-artist."

"That sounds about right," Kyle mutters.

"Shut, up, Jew! Anyway, then I was a paparazzo for a little while."

"_What_…?" one, two, three voices come back in unison.

Cartman chuckles. "Well, it turns out that Denver doesn't really have many celebrities. So that dried up pretty quick. And… now I work in Public Relations," he boasts with a slick grin. "So I guess you could say that I moved my way up in the world."

Stan chuckles to himself, which riles him up again. "What's so funny, faggot?" Cartman demands. "You laughing at how much more successful I am than you?"

"Nope, just laughing at how your career history reads like a goddamn rap sheet," Stan shakes his head, still laughing. "Go figure."

Kyle snorts at Stan's sass and Cartman's angry glare turns to him, instead. "Like you're any better, you filthy lawyer scum!"

Kyle raises his hands slowly and condescendingly in his own defence. "Chill out. I'm not a lawyer."

"What? You were going into Law, last I heard?"

"I switched to Business," he says with a complacent shrug. "More money," he adds with a twitched left eyebrow, waiting for the obvious joke to come out of Cartman's mouth.

He's not surprised when it comes. Older or not, Eric Cartman can't resist a tempting opener like that. "Typical paper-chasing Jew…"

"...says the man who sold his soul for a living?" Kyle's quick to reply.

"I did what I had to do. The economy is crappy. And who can I thank for that?" Cartman's eyes turn into slits as Wendy and Stan share a bemused glance.

"Oh, let me guess. The _Jews_?!" Kyle throws his hands up in the air in a fit of annoyance.

"Bingo!" Cartman beams.

Everybody around them braces for impact, waiting patiently for Kyle's seething retort, or perhaps a rant. They don't get one.

Kyle narrows his eyes and falls uncharacteristically silent. He seems to think for a little while, staring hard at his sparring partner before uttering his next sentence in a considerably calmer fashion. "You don't... really believe that anymore, though, do you?" he asks, gently.

Cartman's pauses for another length of time, until the corners of his mouth turn up ever-so-slightly. "You got me," he barks a laugh. "What can I say?" he breaks his persona. "You're _too_ much fun to wind up, Broflovski." His glance turns to Stan. "The faggot's fun too, but I have a feeling he's too far-gone to actually give a damn what I say."

Stan and Wendy stare at Cartman, mouths agape with abject shock with what they've just witnessed.

Kyle is laughing to himself, his shoulders shaking with mirth as he crosses his arms over his stomach to clutch his sides. "Jesus," he says, wiping a tear away. "You really do derive a sick joy in making your friends miserable."

"Who said we're _friends_?!" Cartman retorts, but he doesn't seem too vindictive. "Anyway. Enough out of you, Jew-boy. What does everyone else do?"

"I work in a call centre, in the complaints department." Stan flatlines. "I live in South Park, with Kenny. He works at Jim's Drugs."

"I can imagine that suiting you. You must be used to disappointing people," Cartman snorts. "Sucks to be you, I guess. And Wendolyn?"

"Don't _call_ me that," she fiddles with her beer bottle label. "And I'm still studying for the bar, I told you. I graduate this year."

"Sucks to be _you_."

"Hah!" she barks, humorless. "Only you would say that to a Harvard Law graduate," she shrugs, unapologetic in her air of superiority.

"Grades aren't everything. I got where I am by being a ruthless mastermind," he boasts.

Wendy flushes red. "Well, I got where I am with hard work and _brains_."

It's Stan and Kyle's turn to share a look. It's equal parts amusement and irritation at the calm and systematic fashion in which Cartman has managed to systematically piss off every single person in the vicinity.

"True, true." Cartman nods, smiling. "I guess Stan's the only _real_ failure out of the lot of us. You'd think with all that dick you suck, you'd have a better lot in life-"

"You'd better shut your fat mouth, you total piece of-" Stan stands up all of a sudden and takes a threatening step towards Cartman, who flinches.

"_Me and Stan_ are going to get some drinks." Kyle interrupts, standing up too and practically dragging Stan by his collar away as Cartman pouts, effectively losing his bait.

When Stan and Kyle are out of earshot, Stan yanks himself out of Kyle's grasp and glares. "I don't need your goddamn assistance with that asshole," he hisses, poking a finger into Kyle's face. "_You're_ the one who can't control his temper, not me."

"Oh, _please_." Kyle rolls his eyes. "Tell you weren't about to rip that asshole a new… asshole." Kyle leans against the bar and shrugs. "Look, I get it. I hate that guy, too."

"You _don't_ get it!" he asserts angrily. Stan pushes on his chest and Kyle stumbles back a pace or two, taken aback. "You have no idea!"

"Oh, because Cartman didn't spend our teenage years alternating between abusing, stalking and harassing me?" Kyle raises an eyebrow, voice laden with sarcasm.

"He didn't ruin your life," Stan growls, turning to the barman, who is polishing some glasses behind the bar. "Some cheap scotch," he half-slurs, no longer lucid enough to care what the bartender thinks of him.

Kyle opens his mouth to retort, and then seems to think better of it. His mouth closes and he replies in a quiet voice. "_Stan_. You're drunk. Let's just get out of here," he tries to reason. His voice is level but something about his tone betrays just a hint of anxiousness.

The bartender from earlier looks nervously back at his customer. "Uh…"

"I'll have a _fifth_ of fucking _scotch_," he says, a little angrier – slapping his hand loudly against the wooden top surface.

Kyle and the bartender lock eyes for a second and Kyle shakes his head, '_no_' at the man. Somehow, the motion doesn't escape Stan, and he scowls deeply at his friend.

"Sorry, dude. I gotta cut you off." Alex makes an apologetic face and his shoulders shrug upwards, as if he doesn't have a choice.

"_Fine_." Stan grits, still glaring daggers at Kyle. "Then I'm getting the _fuck_ out of here," he announces melodramatically, turning on his heel and beginning to angrily storm out of the dingy place. Kyle stares after him for a split second, and then rummages through his wallet, slapping twenty bucks on the bar and shooting the bartender an apologetic glance.

"I'm sorry, man… he's not usually…" he trails off and shakes his curls out. "Look, I gotta go," Kyle concludes, also turning on his heel and walking in the other direction. He briefly stops to grab his coat from where Cartman and Wendy are deep in conversation, throwing his arms in the arm-holes haphazardly as both his companions look at Stan's departing presence, and then Kyle, as if they've both gone insane.

"What's going on?" Wendy asks worriedly. "Is everything okay?" she makes a move to stand up but Kyle raises his hand, stopping her.

"Everything's fine. I'll sort it out," he garbles, aware that if he doesn't catch up to Stan, the boy will be forced to roam the streets of Denver, alone all night. "I'll text you, Wendy. Bye, Eric," he says quickly; absently – and then rushes out into the cold dark streets to run after his friend.

Wendy calls after him, but if he hears, he doesn't respond. She stares after the two boys, anxiety pushing her eyebrows close together and causing her to bite on her lip. "Shit."

"Oh, they'll be fine." Cartman shrugs. "You know those two. So melodramatic. Stan was in theatre club, for fuck's sake." He pauses for a second, thinking. "You know, that's the first time Kyle's ever called me Eric."

"Well, maybe he respects you more," she shrugs. Wendy frowns. "Did you know that Stan and Kyle haven't spoken in years?" she tells him absently. "I wonder what's wrong with them..."

"Well, let them speak now!" he exclaims. "_Besides_. Who needs those guys?" Cartman raises his beer bottle in a 'cheers' motion and Wendy hesitantly accepts, her mind still not quite settled.

Something was _definitely_ going down, and it wasn't in her nature not to know people's business.

* * *

Kyle spots Stan about a block away and sprints to catch him up, his coat billowing behind him. The city lit up, the thudding of his work shoes against the sidewalk- it was like something from a movie. He catches up to his friend and lightly grabs his shoulder, warranting Stan to violently shove himself away. "Leave me the _fuck_ alone!"

Kyle resists every urge not to roll his eyes, but decides to appeal to Stan's lesser-seen logical brain. "Stanley-fucking-Marsh. _Listen_ to me. My place is ten minutes walk from here. You can come back to mine and I'll make you food, or you can roam around the streets and be homeless in Denver for a night. Your choice," he uses his stern voice, and then folds his arms, his weight falling on one hip as he waits patiently for an answer.

There's a decently long silence.

"God-_damn_ it!" Stan swears. "…what's in it for me?"

Kyle's face breaks out in a grin.

"If you behave, I'll make you a birthday cake."


	6. a strange look

**So I graduated! Yay**

* * *

"Just so you know," Stan begins, in between shoving fistfuls of frosting into his mouth. "This is no substitute for home-made. And as such, I _shannot_ behave," he giggles, Kyle eyeing him up with bemusement.

The other boy shrugs, barely lifting his shoulders for the motion as he sinks deeper into his couch and leans his head back against the cushion propped behind it. "Yeah, well, it isn't technically your birthday anymore."

Stan pauses his cake-eating and his gaze fixes into a sorrowful stare over at the other couch. "Christ. _Christ_. I'm twenty-_three_," he groans in dismay, running a stressful hand through his raven hair.

"Don't worry, Stan, I'll still like you when you're twenty-three," he says in a sing-song voice, a little softer. "And besides, you haven't aged a day since high school," he utters, his voice teeming with sarcasm, bringing his beer bottle up to his lips and not saying a word more.

Stan lowers his cake-fist and wipes a few remaining frosting smudges from his stubble. He smirks down at the thing; purchased on a whim at a gas station and feels a sense of shame intermingled with a jarring one of pride. "I think I got fatter..."

"_Speaking_ of things that are fat," Kyle sits up a little straighter; feeling marginally tipsier than before. "Can you believe _Cartman_ showed up? Of all people…"

"I can hardly believe _you_ showed up," Stan retorts with brazen honesty.

"Yeah, well. I thought about not coming, honestly. When Wendy mentioned you'd be there… ah, I wasn't sure if it would be weird. Then I figured, my ever- charming self would get you to talk to me." Kyle grins, his smile gleaming with mock arrogance.

"You _wish_."

"Hey, you _are_ talking to me!" Kyle points out.

"You bribed me with food." Stan licks residue frosting from his fingers as if to prove his point.

"All it took was a shitty three dollar cake? Damn, if _only_ I'd known that secret back in high school," Kyle rattles off in his signature deadpan.

There's a brief silence, during which Kyle wonders if he's allowed to say things like that anymore.

Stan changes the subject. "Dude," he ponders humbly, slicing through the strange quiet. "...we left Cartman with _Wendy_."

Kyle barks a laugh, and then immediately feels a little bad. "Oh, man. Sucks to be her," he deadpans, repeating Cartman's catchphrase from earlier. "That's no fun at all."

"Do you think we should we go back and save her?" he asks, popping a potato chip into his mouth with gay abandon.

Kyle shakes his head, taking in another glug of beer. "_Nah_. She's better equipped for dealing with him than either of us, anyhow," he declares. "I mean, _you're _angry drunk and I'm... well, _me_," he points out. "The last thing I need on my hands is a homicide investigation."

Stan laughs into his IPA. "You talk about it like it's a given…"

"Yeah… well, I can't…" Kyle trails off and narrows his eyes. "Hey, where did you get that!" he points to Stan's bottle. "That's one of my IPAs!"

Stan grins like a monkey. "I stole it from your pantry," he sniffs. "I can't believe you only have these and no lager. And I thought _I_ was the gay one!"

"IPA isn't gay!" Kyle protests.

"Uh, _I'd_ know. My gaydar is going crazy for your gay-ass beer," Stan purses his lips and gives his best sassy look, which admittedly, falls a little flat. "Whatever, anyway. I'm drinking it."

"It's like 3am," Kyle rubs his eyes. "Aren't you tired?!"

Stan glares over at his friend and Kyle concedes, raising two defensive hands in the air in front of him. "Okay, okay. Drink your cares away, not my business."

Stan nods, brain hazy but vaguely pleased with this outcome.

* * *

"Oh my God," Bebe finds herself saying, over and over again. "Oh my God. Oh my God."

Kenny frowns and scratches at the yellow stubble on his face. "You're meant to say that _during_ sex, not afterwards," he points out a little grumblingly, pulling the white blanket just a smidgen to cover his modesty (if he truly had any).

"No, no. I just mean…." Bebe's face is beetroot red. "I can't _believe_ we just did that!" she exclaims, folding her arms self-consciously over her chest.

Kenny shrugs, his breathing slowing marginally as the natural overwhelming desire to bolt out the door post-coitus sets in. "Oh, come on. I wasn't _that_ bad."

"Ha-ah!" Bebe laughs now, a slightly breathless and flustered sound. "Boys always think that. And girls will always tell them that," she says, smiling a little mysteriously.

Kenny groans and covers his face with one of the pillows which had been keeping his head up; feeling it drop heavily onto the mattress. Bebe laughs and pulls the pillow from his face with a scornful look. "Oh, I'm kidding. You were fine," she mutters. When Kenny shoots her a slightly disbelieving look, she raises her hands and repeats herself. "You _were_!"

"Just answer me one question, Stevens."

"Shoot."

"Who is better. Me or Kyle?"

Bebe contorts her face into a pensive expression as she appears to mull this over. "Well. Kyle was a long time ago," she remarks, biting her lip. I guess we had the added benefit of teenage hormones complicating everything."

"Psh. I still have that."

"True, true…" she shrugs. "Uh. I'd have to give you an eight. And a seven-point-five for Kylie."

Kenny pumps his fists with unabashed triumph. "YES!" he yells. "Wait. Out of ten?" he adds. She nods. "Would you be willing to go on record as having said that? In my experience, girls are way more likely to put out if they've heard you're a good shag."

"Sure," Bebe shrugs, pulling a compact mirror from the side of her bed and briefly checking her reflection in it. "Anyone in particular you're interested in?" she asks, a little sarcastically. They did just get through having sex, after all.

"I'll sleep on it," he shrugs, noncommittally. "Can I ask what the two-point-five was, though?"

"Well, if I'm honest…" she pauses, pouting at her reflection. "You _try_ harder. You're more enthusiastic. Kyle's got the confidence but he never… ah, hmm. He never really put in much effort, I suppose." she answers honestly. "I don't hold it against him." She sits up now, her post-coital glow beginning to fade. "I suppose he never like me that much."

Kenny pauses for a second to think about this, and then launches into another question. "Whose dick is bi-"

"_Absolutely_ not answering that."

"Fine." Kenny pouts. "Then... who _is_ your best? Of all time?"

Bebe snickers lightly into her hand. "Oh honey. You don't want to know."

"I do." Kenny swears solemnly. "I _desperately_ want to know," he corrects her.

She pauses for a little dramatic effect, and it works. "Token," she reveals finally, an air of gravity in her voice. "Token was my best ever. Junior year of high school, in the back of my dad's Buick."

"_Token_?!" Kenny groans. "Aw, man, I can't compete with Token." he moans, sinking down in the bed hopelessly.

Bebe clears her throat and fiddles with her hair but doesn't say anything, and suddenly Kenny feels that the air between is loaded, somehow. He frowns over at his companion. "What's up? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I... shouldn't have pried. Sorry."

"I'm just… I mean. Aren't you going to call me a whore, or something?"

Kenny's eyes snap open, gobsmacked. "No…" he starts slowly. "Why would you think that?!"

"Every guy I've been with implies it, in some way. When they find out how many of their friends that I've slept with."

"Really?" Kenny seems incredulous. "Wait, wait. _Kyle_ called you a whore…?"

She purses her lips and shrugs. "Admittedly no. But I could always tell that he thought I was easy, to some degree." She pauses, inspecting her latest conquest with a smile. "It's fine, you know." She defuses the tension with a little exhale. "I mean, I'm used to it. If it really bothered me, I would stop sleeping with guys."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Bebe, you are _not_ a whore," he finds himself adamantly telling her. "I'd heard you've been with a lot of guys, but… surely you just like sex?" He jabs a thumb towards himself. "If you're a whore, then _I'm_ definitely a whore. I'm the biggest whore going."

Truer words were never spoken.

She just shrugs. "It's different for guys."

He ponders this statement he's been presented with, struggling for a response. "Well... it shouldn't be."

"It is, though."

"Well. That sucks. I'm… I guess I'm sorry. You should be able to fuck people if that's what your heart desires. You know, without being accused of shit."

"Ya know, you're pretty refreshing, McCormick." She runs a hand through her hair, before rummaging through her cabinet drawers and fishing a box of cigarettes from the thing, plucking one out and placing it gingerly in Kenny's mouth. He accepts the gesture with a little surprise. "Go ahead," she instructs, passing him a lighter.

He lights himself up and leans back onto the headboard, one hand behind his head. "Thanks."

She does the same to herself, and after exhaling a mouthful of smoke, she chuckles. "We totally should have done with this back in high school. Remind me, why didn't we?"

"Man, I _wanted_ to. You were seeing Kyle, for some of it." he scratches his head, a thought occurring. "Actually, do you think he'll mind?"

"I doubt it. He probably wouldn't have cared even when we were together."

Kenny smiles smugly, taking a drag from his cigarette. "You know, I've been thinking. I might be able to bring myself up to a nine."

"Oh yeah?"

"It's a skill of mine. One cigarette and I'll be ready to go again," he boasts. "Promise."

Bebe twists her face into a wry and apologetic smile. "I'm tired, actually. I think I might hit the hay."

Kenny's face falls for a second and he looks genuinely crushed, until Bebe throws him another bone. "Oh, cheer up, boy. There's always the morning."

He beams again and finishes his cigarette, crushing the remains in the bedside ashtray. "Your grandad smokes, I take it."

"Twenty a day."

"Hm," he shrugs, looking around at the mess. "Well. We'd better get cleaned up."

* * *

"You know, you don't have to be an asshole _all_ the time." Wendy frowns after her friends flee the bar. "You could try being nice. Just like, a little bit. A smidge, really," she drawls. "You might even _enjoy_ it."

"Psh. Relax, bitch."

Wendy growls. "What the hell is wrong with you, anyway? They're supposed to be your friends."

"Are they?"

Wendy opens her mouth and then closes it, thinking of how to respond. "Well, if they're not, then it's your own fault."

"Come off it." Cartman rolls his eyes, levelling Wendy. "If I'm so bad, why are _you_ still hanging around?"

"Because, you idiot," Wendy starts, glaring. "Stan and Kyle ran off together, Kenny and Bebe are banging, and _you're_ the only one left."

"Or… is it because you secretly harbour feelings for me?" Cartman proposes an alternative point of view, to which Wendy snorts.

"Deep feelings of resentment, yes," she regards him thoughtfully for a second or two, her scowl cracking. "You know, I can see why the boys kept you around for so long."

"Oh?"

"You're _funny_," she tells him informatively, surprised as the words even come out of her mouth. "You've _always_ been the funny one."

"I thought Kenny was the funny one, and I was the fat one."

Wendy screws up her nose. "If Kenny was funny, then it was lost on me. Anyway, you've lost weight, right?" she changes the subject quickly, allowing herself a quick sip from her beverage.

"Yes." He doesn't blink. "Okay. I'm the funny one. Kenny's the poor one. What are Stan and Kyle?"

Wendy mulls this over. "Stan's the sensitive one."

"The gay one, you mean?" Cartman mimes puking. "God, don't _remind_ me. Does that make Kyle the... other gay one?"

"Kyle… Kyle's the serious one. The moral one." she decides.

"I'm moral, you _whore_," Cartman grumbles. "Anyway, how _moral_ is selling out to the corporate machine?"

"Very true." Wendy agrees. "Guess he's just the Jewish one."

They both chuckle for a second and then Wendy's face turns serious. "Do you think they're okay? Stan left in a hurry," she bites her lip, concerned. "It is his birthday…" she checks the time, and corrects herself. "Or it was."

"Leave it to those two to cause some stupid drama," he rolls his eyes. "Stan's still pissy about those posters, I take it."

Wendy's mouth opens, and then it shuts, quietly. "The posters…" she shudders. "Jesus, Eric. I had forgotten about all that crap." She slaps a hand into her forehead. "What were you _thinking_?"

Cartman's face turns to a scowl, and he shrugs. "They deserved it. Pussies."

"No, they didn't," she shakes her head, slow. "Even you know they didn't deserve that."

His face turns red and his lips turn downwards at the corners. "I don't know why everyone got so crazy about that. I thought it was funny, and those guys are assholes, anyway-"

"No." Wendy says, serious now. "It is _not_ funny." She's angrier, now. She all but forgotten earlier, when she had found herself enjoying his company for a few seconds. "You outed him to the whole town. He got bricks through his front window!" Wendy berates him. "Jesus Christ, can't you just admit when you're wrong?!"

"It taught him a lesson." Eric sticks with his guns and doesn't change his tone.

"He tried to _kill_ himself, Eric." Wendy hisses, suddenly furious. "What's the lesson?"

Cartman's face pales a little. "I… didn't know about that." His blood curdles in his veins, but he can't help but shrug nonchalantly.

"Jesus." Wendy shakes her head, making a motion to stand up. "You… you're _beyond_ help. I can't believe I even tried to bother with you," she says to herself, pulling her beret out of her bag and placing it onto her head and swinging her bag onto her shoulder. She's stopped just before she manages to storm out of there by Cartman, who stood up to put an arm on hers. She stares at the offending appendage for a half a second and then scowls. "Get. The fuck. _Off_ me."

"Don't go," he asks, suddenly injecting a token amount of desperation and pleading into his previously monotonous voice. "If you stay... I'll tell you my side of the story."

Against her better judgement, Wendy hesitates.

* * *

Kyle plucks the last two cold beers from his fridge before kicking the thing shut with his bare foot. He wanders back into the lounge where he finds Stan splayed out on the couch, his eyes closed and softly snoring. Kyle snorts quietly with amusement to himself. "Of course," he mutters quietly, and then shakes his head, placing the two unopened bottles down on the coffee table.

He observes the sleeping Stan for a few seconds, a strange expression on his face, then shakes his head at seemingly nothing, tiptoeing around his friend to quietly clear the room from the numerous alcoholic beverages which had accumulated around them. He pads over to the kitchen and lightly places the glass bottles in the recycling bin with a small clink, in a bid to not wake up Stan or his roommates upstairs.

He returns into the lounge and shoots Stan another hesitant look, something unreadable in his eyes. Remembering something, he wanders over to the unoccupied couch and reaches round the back, pulling out a thick blanket and tossing it lightly over Stan. He takes a step back, almost in the manner than one might to observe a painting, or some sort of confusing arrangement that they wanted to understand better. That strange expression flickers over his features again and he runs a stressed hand through his ginger locks, before turning away; towards to the door and flicking out the lights.

"_Shit_," he mutters to himself in the dark, with nobody around awake to hear him.


	7. a lazy sunday

**Sorry about the delay on all of my work atm. I just got my undergraduate degree and a subsequent summer job! Hope y'all enjoy.**

* * *

Kyle's eyes flit out the window and the sprinklings of a frown appear on his features as he ponders the events of the night before. He's tired, which is evidenced clearly by the bags under his eyes and the croak in his voice. He hadn't slept too well, even after he had retired up to bed.

"Broflovski."

He feels a thick layer of fog curl itself around the fibres of his brain as he stares blankly at his computer screen; tapping a few of the keys in a vague attempt to formulate an email to the financing department.

He idly wonders if Stan will still be sleeping when he gets back. He certainly had been when Kyle had left the house at six, but Sunday hours permit him to work up until midday and then call it a day.

"Broflovski!"

Had it been weird, the way they'd left things? Was Stan going to wake up, in the sober light of day, and suddenly remember how much he hated Kyle?

"_Broflovski_!" his colleague taps him on the arm and Kyle's mind suddenly jumps awake as he spins round in his desk chair. "Jesus. I thought you might have finally keeled over."

"I wouldn't rule it out just yet," Kyle groans back. "Sorry." He rubs his eyes. "What... did you want?"

"You look rough. Were you drinking last night?" his colleague wonders. Jack, his name was. Technically under Kyle's remit but they started out at the firm at the same time, so there wasn't much in it.

"Yeah."

"Ouch." Jack shrugs, not much pity in his shallow tone. Kyle blearily notices the stack of files in his hand and gestures to it.

"Are those for me?"

"Yup."

"Urgh. What are they?" Kyle dares to peek at the papers.

"It's a bunch of resumes. I just got it down from about a thousand, so don't complain. Now you have to pick twenty to interview. New associates." Jack sends him a wink, pausing. "Later… few of us are going for a drink at one, courtesy of having to come into the office on a Sunday. You in?"

Kyle hesitates. "Uh…"

"I _know_ it's not too early for you, so don't even try that."

He shrugs, his mind flitting to Stan against his better intentions. "I'm seeing Lauren," he answers, lying seamlessly.

Jack shrugs. "You were more fun before the ball and chain, man." he says simply, and turns around to leave, giving Kyle one last gesture to the pile of papers before he goes. "Pick some nice sounding girls."

Kyle makes a grossed-out noise emanating from deep within his throat. "Don't let HR catch you saying that," Kyle manages to say to his colleague before he saunters away.

"I never do!" Jack calls back over his shoulder.

Kyle shudders and stares at the pile of papers with a sigh.

* * *

Kenny manages to hang out at Bebe's for approximately forty minutes the following morning, before she ultimately decides that she's seen enough of him and kicks him out. Nicely, mind you. He'd shot her a puppy dog look so she'd given him ten bucks for some lunch.

She was, after all, well aware that without Stan around, Kenny would wander around broke all day. She even let him charge his phone up before sending him on his way, so he could at least make a call. Bebe was nice like that.

Still. He's a _little_ sore about being dumped out onto the streets. And after sex, no less. Hands in his dirty pockets, he kicks the sidewalk under his shoe and wanders past the myriad shops which pass him on the street.

He stares longingly at an In 'N' Out burger place for a few minutes, wistfully curling his hands around the 12 bucks he's currently in possession of before stiffly moving on.

He knows he can't afford that kind of luxury, not today.

It's the kind of rare good decision that Kenny occasionally manages to make, once in a blue moon. His stomach growling, he instead finds himself asking directions to a Wal-Mart where he buys a loaf of white bread and a giant bottle of lemonade.

_Okay_, and a packet of cigarettes. So sue him. He devours half the bread and a quarter of the lemonade in quick succession while sat on a bench outside the railway station.

At some point, a lady with a pram wanders by and sympathetically waves a five dollar bill in his face. "Here. Buy yourself something nutritious to eat," she tells him, wrinkling her nose up at his bread lunch.

"Uh." He stares at her. "I'm… not actually _homeless_." He blinks, a little confused.

She sends him a pitying look. "Of course not." She shrugs and drops the money on his lap. "And well done for not buying booze," he gestures towards the bread.w

Kenny shrinks backwards from the green slip of paper and his face crumples up as she saunters in the opposite direction. Absently, he stares down at himself and wonders if he really _does_ look like he's sleeping rough.

Sure, his hair is a little greasy. And his clothes are always old and ripped. And he realises with a jolt that his jacket is on inside out and that the laces on his sneakers are undone. But homeless? That was insulting, even for someone like Kenny.

He shoves the money in his pocket a little self-consciously, looking around him to and fro to see if anyone had seen that little exchange. When he concludes that nobody had been around, he stands and briskly walks away from the park bench.

For another twenty minutes he wanders around, feeling vaguely lost and wondering if he should call Stan. His phone has on it a single message from the boy:

_Crashed at kyle's last night. Catch up later?_

A part of him doesn't really want to call Stan. He's not sure why, really. Maybe it's because he knows that if Stan and Kyle are together, then Kenny is second best. That's the way it's always been, and why should that change now?

He dials another number, his heart beating quickly as he holds his crappy phone up to his ear and falling a little bit more at every time it rings; unanswered.

_Hey, it's Babes. Leave a message and I might call you back!_

_Beeeeeeeeep~_

Kenny's greasy thumb can't hit the red button fast enough.

"Jesus, Kenny. Get a grip," he mutters to himself. He's just decided to bite the bullet and try for Stan when his phone lights up with another call coming through.

It's Bebe.

Tentatively, he puts the phone to his ear.

"Kenny? Is everything ok? You called me…? I'm sorry, I just stepped out the shower and I missed you."

"Hey. I'm, uh. Sorry to bother you. I just… I don't really have anywhere to go…" he finds himself mumbling, hating himself for being so awkward. "I mean, until the evening."

Bebe's laugh hits him strangely hard in the chest and he imagines her rolling her eyes at him.

"It's cool. Come back here and we can hang out. But…" she starts and Kenny's chest twists up again in knots. "You'll have to make do with my grandad being around." She finishes. "I'm on visiting duty today."

"Oh, uh." Kenny coughs. "Will I be intruding?"

"Not at all!" she replies, about as chirpily as ever. "You can tell him all about the afterlife!"

* * *

Kyle doesn't really know what he expects when he gets back into his house at 2 pm. Half of him expects to find Stan still curled up asleep, another part of him expects to find his flat devoid of any life; except for his roommate, of course.

When he finds Stan on his couch playing Crash Bandicoot and on his second bottle of beer, it's neither a surprise nor totally expected.

"Uh…" Kyle walks in to the lounge and drops his keys with a clatter onto the end table next to the couch. Stan tears his eyes away from the screen for a split second to nod in response and then glues himself back to the game.

Kyle's struck with two conflicting feelings; the first is a very unwelcome pang of something nostalgic; domesticity, perhaps? The second is entirely jarring; a sort of deflated and vague anxiety about the fact that Stan is _already_ drinking at 2pm in the afternoon.

"All okay?" he asks, tersely.

"Yeah, man." Stan shrugs, his thumbs flicking quickly as on-screen Crash… well, crashes.

"You found more beer?"

"Is that okay, man? I can spooge you over some money later today," he offers.

Kyle shakes his head. "No, no. That's fine, you don't need to," he waves the offer away and clears his throat "Did you manage to sleep okay? You looked pretty zonked out when I left you..."

"I slept fine. You?"

"Yeah."

In truth, Kyle had slept unusually fitfully, but he didn't see that as particularly important information right now. "Are you…" he starts, but immediately decides to go in a different direction. "Where is Kenny today?"

"Oh, he texted me. He's hanging with Bebe today. Go figure." Stan replies absently, reaching the end of the level with a victorious jingle and gently placing the controller down on the couch. A silence falls between the two of them and Stan coughs. "Good game."

"Yeah," Kyle shrugs.

"How was work?"

"Fine, fine. How was… whatever you've been doing?"

"Pretty boring."

Both boys take a moment to silently wonder why it was so awkward between them, but neither of them feels like addressing it. "You know… this one has a two-player level?" he jigs his head towards the console. "Want to play with me?"

"Oh." Kyle seems surprised by this, but doesn't object. He sits down obediently next to Stan on the leather couch. "Okay. We'll play a few," he agrees. "But… Fair warning. I'm pretty wicked at this game, so…" he trails off, flashing Stan a confident grin.

"I'll temper my expectations," Stan rolls his eyes. "Besides, if I remember rightly, it was always _your_ ass getting kicked when we were younger."

There's a collective sigh of relief.

* * *

Kenny didn't like the smell of hospitals.

It went without saying that he'd grown up in a real slum. In many respects, Cartman had been correct when he'd accused Kenny of living in the ghetto of South Park. His house had been run down, smelly, grimy, dirty, full of his dad's crap but somehow at the same time - perpetually empty of any real furniture. His backyard had been the single, cracked paving slab in front of his house, which occasionally contained a drunk resident passed out there; and his shed oftentimes provided shelter for the local meth tweakers.

There was a certain comfort in that life for him. He liked the smells, the sights, the rough living. It was what he grew up with - and what you grew up with had a funny way of becoming the very thing that comforts you.

In direct contrast, hospitals were the cleanest, most organised places one could find oneself. From the stench of disinfectant to the sight of politely disinterested staff, exactly _nothing_ about it appealed to him.

This condition was not helped by the fact that Kenny himself would most likely live his entire life without ever once actually needing to go to the hospital.

But hey. Immortality would do that to a guy.

Oh, and there was that _one_ time that he'd had his heart replaced his heart with a baked potato. Kenny _still_ has questions about that, most notable of which is: _why_ did that memory bring up thoughts of _George Clooney_?

He realises his mind is wandering and he's fidgeting. He decides to tune into the conversation that Bebe is having with her grandfather in the bed next to him.

"But… they're keeping you comfortable, right?" he hears her ask, concern creeping in. "Y'know, looking after you?"

"Mm," the man simply responds, tilting his head forward sighing. "Thank you for coming to visit, Bebe. It's more than your mother managed, _that's_ for goddamn sure," he complains.

In the short span of time which Kenny has known Bebe's grandfather, he's gleaned that the old man is extremely fond of complaining.

"I know, I know," Bebe sighs. "I'll... speak to her, okay?"

"Whatever," he grumbles in response. For the first time in twenty minutes, his eyes slip over to where Kenny is awkwardly sitting. "Who is that man in my room?"

"I told you, grandfather. That's my friend Kenny."

"He smells."

Kenny has the good grace to look a little embarrassed, but he stands up. "I can go, if you like?"

"Nonsense," Bebe frowns. "Grandad! Don't be so mean. Apologise to Kenny."

The man rolls his eyes heavenward but nothing resembling an apology comes out of his mouth. Instead he offers a sly smile. "Are you two…?"

"No! he's just my friend," Bebe jumps in hastily to correct her crotchety old relation. "We're just friends."

Kenny doesn't know whether to feel offended about how quickly she managed to shut down her grandfather's line of questioning.

"Fine, fine," he concedes. "But it's about time you found yourself a nice man. You're almost twenty-four, for goodness' sake! YOU, boy!" the man suddenly yells over to Kenny, whose hairs stand on end. "When are you going to do the right thing and marry my granddaughter!"

Kenny splutters. "Uh, um, we're just, frie-"

"He's just messing with you." Bebe blows air out of her mouth, explaining. "He's not _that_ senile."

Kenny blinks twice; once in utter confusion and the second in embarrassment at his not having realised that he's being made fun of, and a grin breaks out all over his face. "B-but… I was going to propose this afternoon…" he whines, enjoying very much the look on Bebe's face twist from surprise to amusement. "I thought this would be the most romantic place."

"Mm." She wrinkles up her nose in wry humor. "Well, I've had worse proposals."

Grandad cuts in. "I would never have given my blessing. The two of _you_? I don't need any more goddamned silly blondes in my bloodline, thank you very much." Grandpa snips and Kenny tousles his hair in thought.

"I've always considered myself aryan," he says absently.

"Well, in that case…" Bebe's grandpa starts, his voice laden with sarcasm. "Get outta here, you Hitler youth wannabe," he shakes his fist at Kenny. "You too, Bebe. I need to rest, talking to the two of you has made me sleepy," he complains.

"Okay. Just as long as you're sure you're okay; don't need anything?" she double-checks.

"I'll manage, thanks." The old man slides lower into his bed and groans in relief as he turns horizontal, waving the two youths away with a flick of his elderly wrist.

"See you later, Grandad," Bebe saunters up and plants a kiss on his cheek. Kenny decides it would be best not to follow suit.

"Later. Nice meeting you," he offers instead, even going so far as to whack out a Hitler salute on his way out; wondering briefly how hard Kyle would punch him if he were seeing this right now.

They get out of the room and there's a second long pause.

"_Whew_," Bebe sighs, once they're out of earshot and the door to the infirmary is tightly closed. "That was... a lot." She drags up one side of her mouth into a half-smile. "Thanks for coming with me. I could really go for a drink, if you're game?"


	8. a collection of cocktails

**Won't even make excuses... I just have no motivation to write atm.**

* * *

The two old schoolmates sit side by side on the park bench by the train station in silence. Around them, the trees rustle, creating a pleasant rustling backdrop and reminding them of the harsh reality of living in the heart of the Colorado mountains.

It was goddamn freezing.

Cartman stares hard at a spot right in front of him, but it's clear to both of them that he's not really looking at anything in particular. Wendy clears her throat and shuffles to face her companion, a little tentative. "Um, Eric?" she starts, eloquently.

"What," he growls in that familiar tetchy tone of his.

"It's just that…" Wendy trails off. "Well, you wanted to tell me something. Your side of the story. But so far, we've just been sitting here." She checks her watch for emphasis rather than functionality before pointedly glancing at the railroad tracks. "Two trains have already left."

He shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, still not breaking his gaze into the middle distance. "Did you ever… just get really angry? You know, in high school?"

Wendy nods, glad that he's finally broken his apparent silence. Her mind flits to a certain fourth grade substitute teacher who may or may not have ended up being flown to the sun in a fit of jealous rage. "Yes, of course," she clears her throat. "I think we all did, at some point."

"Right. So… what did you do when you felt that way?" he asks again, his mouth forming a grim line after every sentence.

Wendy tries to think, really think. What _would_ she have done, back when her hormones were going all haywire and she would occasionally PMS during class? "Probably… rant to Bebe, or to my dad. Sharing is caring, and all that crap." She ends on a rather flippant note.

"Right, right. Sure," he deadpans. "Us guys…? We can't do that."

"You can."

"No, it's not the same. We get shit for it. Stan and Kyle always had each _other_ for that crap. Kenny's the most zen guy I know, he never needs to vent. So where was I supposed to go when I got angry? What do guys do?"

Wendy blinks. "Um… they get in fights, then? But you weren't much of a fighter, if I remember rightly…" her mind flits to the times when Cartman would wail after a mere punch on the arm from Kyle.

"Yeah, well. That was really more Kyle's schtick. I was a fat fuck, in high school. I couldn't _fight_, and losing… that would just piss me off even more. So I made people feel bad, in other ways. It was… an outlet for me."

Wendy tries not to outwardly show how utterly floored she is by this unexpected tidal wave of self-awareness. She nods in a manner that she hopes is at least slightly sympathetic. "I see. What had made you angry enough to do what you did to Stan?"

"You'll think it's stupid."

"Try me," she counters.

"Fine," he spits, and launches into a tirade. "We were… at my mother's house," he remembers. "_My_ house. I think we were playing video games or something, pretty low-key if I remember rightly. All that shit had gone down between Stan and Kyle, a few days before. It was real awkward, like something was really wrong. I mean, they were hardly talking, which wasn't like them. And... it was my mom's birthday, so I had bought her this shitty cake thing from the supermarket. Just something cheap, we never had much money, really," he sighs, tangentially. "I made fun of Kenny for it, but our family was hardly better off." Cartman frowns and clears his throat. "Anyway. So the guys see this cake and they just started making jokes about my mom; like, popping out of a cake, stripper style. Really just going to _town_. I mean, I say it was most of them. It started out that way, but it was... it was Stan that really kept going for it. I guess he was pissed off too, or upset, or some shit. Stan and I... we aren't all that different. He's mean when he's angry, too. Kyle kept pretty quiet, but I could see that he was sending Stan a text or something to shut the fuck up, I don't know. It pissed me off, honestly. That Stan said that stuff; that Kyle would feel like he needed to protect me; that they were all texting behind my back... the jokes about my mom. And on her birthday, y'know?" Eric riffs off.

Wendy manages a weak 'uh-huh' and lets Cartman keep telling it.

"So they go off somewhere, maybe to get food or drinks or something. Who remembers? So I grabbed Stan's phone where he'd left it, I knew his password. I went through the texts with Kyle - I just wanted to embarrass him. There wasn't anything too interesting, except then I found it. The conversation, where Stan had told Kyle everything." Cartman snorts. "You know, it was _such_ perfect timing," he pauses. "And y_ou_ knew, and even _Kenny_ knew, it turns out. Just _me. _It was only me that they didn't tell about the gay... thing," he scowls. "This pissed me off more. So I took a screenshot, sent it to myself and then deleted the message and the shot."

"Right, but…" she hesitates, dumbfounded. "Why put up the posters?"

"I didn't really intend to, not at first." He shrugs. "At first it was leverage. Then, it was blackmail. And then… I don't know, really. I kind of lost control of it all. They kept pissing me off, more and more until I got _angry_, and I spent one evening just sticking that shit up all over the school."

Wendy sits quietly for a second or two and shifts uncomfortably. "You know, it's still really shitty of you to do that."

"I know it was."

"I don't think you realise how much that… how much of an effect it had. On the two of them," she bites her lip. "I didn't realise it until just now, but... well, I'm pretty sure it was the whole reason that they had that huge argument."

"Yeah, well, Kyle's the one who got all _defensive_. I may have posted their conversation, but Kyle effectively told the whole school about Stan being gay." Cartman rolls his eyes and scoffs. "Look, Kyle's a big boy, he can handle himself. Besides, the two of us have a history of doing shit like that to each other. He's done alright, hasn't he?"

Wendy emits a noise of sheer frustration and inwardly refrains from punching him on the arm- the last thing she needs is to spend the next two hours consoling a crying Cartman- and takes a deep breath, thinking carefully about her words. "Jesus, Eric, it's like you're _trying_ to misunderstand me. I'm not talking about Kyle! _Screw _Kyle," she enunciates. "I'm talking about _Stan_."

Cartman's fists clench tightly. "You don't think I feel guilty about it? Jeez."

"I don't know! I _never_ know what to think, with you! Sometimes it seems like you're a total sociopath. Sometimes you seem to have emotions; feel guilt. There's no pattern with you," she says defeated. She leans back into the bench, gazing searchingly into his light brown eyes as she lays her thoughts out with unprecedented candour.

"I'm fucked up," he shrugs. "Probably my upbringing."

She can't help but snort. "Well, aren't we _all," _she shakes her head. "No, Cartman, if that excuse worked... _everyone_ would use it."

"Well, maybe some people deal with it better?" he reasons.

"And _some_ people are pussies."

Cartman laughs from his belly. "You're beginning to sound like me, now," he points out. "Whatever. I never expected a shiny person like you to _get_ it. You'll just keep on living your middle-class life, get your fucking Ivy League education, find yourself a pretty, rich boy to marry and pop out 3.5 kids," he rants. "Have fun with your white-picket fence life, but try to remember that there are other people out there that never had it so easy."

There's a silence as they both feel the conversation turn sour and Wendy ponders how to get it back on the right track.

"You're right," she says simply, after some thought. "I _am_ privileged. I know that. I want to be better, though. I want to understand people, understand how to help people. Don't you _get_ that that's why I wanted to become a lawyer in the first place? It's not for _money_, not for me."

Cartman harrumphs as if he barely believes her, but he does decide to play along. "You can't, though. Get it, I mean. You can't really ever understand what it's like to grow up with a single mother who whored herself out so we could afford food every week," he shrugs. "That's just the way it is."

"Just like _you_ won't ever understand what it was like for Stan when you did what you did," she counters, feeling combative.

Cartman scoffs and his face burns red like fire. "You need to get over that boy. Didn't you break up, like, ten years ago?"

Wendy stops, looks at Cartman. Really looks at him, takes him in and makes her features as hard as she can. "Eric. I am serious. You should apologise to him."

He buries his oversized head in his undersized hands and a deep sigh puffs out of him. Cracking open his fingers slightly, he peers apprehensively at his companion. A glimmer of amusement passes through his eyes. "You're super serial?"

"Super _duper_ serial, Mr Gore," she salutes, grateful for the crack in the tension. At that moment, her phone buzzes in her pocket and gives her a slight scare. She holds one finger up to Cartman as her other hand slides the thing out of her back pocket and up to her face. The text reads:

**_Drinks tonight? Invite the others_**

"It's from Bebe," Wendy mutters, shaking her head and sliding her phone back away. "We're going to go out. Tonight. With the others… and you're going to speak to Stan then."

Cartman curses under his breath.

* * *

"Well this place is _much_ livelier!" Bebe remarks as she enters the crowded bar. "And on a Sunday, too. Oh, how I miss the city," she smiles faintly over at Kenny, who nods in rapid agreement. She tuts at his eagerness to look around at all the pretty young women sitting sipping their cocktails around them and delivers a crooked smile his way. "Oh, you incorrigible old perv," she remarks, good-naturedly.

Kenny holds his hands up in a genuinely defensive position and shakes his head. "I wasn't! I was looking for Stan and Kyle." He places a hand on her hip and offers up his signature cheeky grin. "Besides. I walked in with the most gorgeous girl in the whole place."

She's one second away from batting his hand away from her hip when Wendy's face lights up from the corner and she waves them over. "Oh God." Bebe rolls her eyes as they approach her friend. "And... she brought _Cartman_," she turns to Kenny and mouths 'kill me now' to which he merely shrugs, walking ahead to greet his old friend.

"Cartman, dude. Long time no see," Kenny keeps his intonation fairly chilly- the two of them had no reason not to be on speaking terms, but Cartman was generally best avoided by everyone. "How you been, man."

Cartman nods and even sticks out a hand for the boy to shake. "McCormick," he nods. "I heard you were in town."

Kenny doesn't really mask his confusion of Cartman's use of the phrase '_in town'_ – it's not like they're in South Park right now, but he doesn't bite. He figures that people like Eric Cartman probably only got weirder over the years and the last he wants to do is give the boy any shred of the attention he so desperately craves. "Ayup," he utters, looking away at Bebe, ending the conversation.

"Good to see you," Cartman tries, but Kenny's not interested in playing friendly.

"Come on. Shall we sit down and get some drinks?" he asks, mostly to change the subject, and then internally smacks himself. _Dammit_, he doesn't have any money. "Or, um. You guys can… I'm sober," he offers a weak smile, covering his tracks.

"You were out drinking last night!" Bebe exclaims, shedding her camel coat like it's a winter layer and draping it over a big armchair in the corner of the bar.

"Uh..."

"Besides," she waggles her eyebrows. "First round is on Kyle," she enunciates as she points her finger directly across the bar where the aforementioned buyer of drinks is making their way over to him. Stan comes in tow, although lagging slightly behind and looking a little worse-for-wear. He looks even more uncomfortable when he spies Cartman out of the corner of his eye and winces.

"I heard my name. Why?" Kyle demands, a big accommodating-_if-slightly-concerned_ smile on his face.

"Rounds on you." Cartman barks quickly; doesn't look at Kyle. "_Thanks_."

"Uh… why's _that_ then, lardass?" he places a hand on his hip. He's not about to readily pay for everyone's drinks without at least questioning it.

"Because the lady said so, Jew-boy," Cartman retaliates hotly.

Kyle's eyebrow flickers up and Bebe watches with interest as seemingly both Stan and Wendy tense up, sensing a dispute coming on.

Luckily, Kyle's temper appears to have simmered significantly since they were teenagers, because instead of physically lifting up a chair, or say, Kenny, and tossing him at the fatter boy- he simply raises his hands and shrugs.

"Sure. Anything for my _best friends_," he says languidly, his eyes lingering on Cartman and suggesting that his statement might _possibly_ be anything other than 100% genuine. He slides off his peacoat and drapes it over Bebe's, effectively creating a coat-chair where Bebe was planning on sitting. She looks at it, dismayed for a second, before other people start piling their coats on top in accordance.

Kyle wanders off to the bar and Stan utters some excuse as to why he has to go with.

And then there were four.

"You didn't have to..." Wendy starts to hiss at her companion but then stops short, rolling her eyes. "Oh, why do I _bother_?" she asks redundantly to herself, before changing the subject. "How was your evening last night, then, you two?" she posits the question that Bebe and Kenny were expecting, a knowing smile ghosting over her lips.

Kenny's eyes dart towards Bebe, as if the question was obviously for her, but she only shrugs. "A lady never kisses and tells."

Cartman wrinkles up his nose and clearly has some sort of comment. Before he can contribute, Wendy cuts him off by stamping on his foot and speaks before he manages to. "Well, I hope everything went okay with your grandfather today, Bebe."

"Yes, yes. He's doing alright… I just wish that I could afford somewhere nicer for him to stay. That hospital room is a bit cramped."

"Are you _kidding_? It was bigger than me and Stan's whole apartment!" Kenny cracks a joke. He didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't one, two, three surprised glances in his direction.

"You _live_ with Stan?" Cartman exclaims. "Jesus. I knew you guys were fags." No prizes for guessing who got in first with the comments.

"You… _met_ Bebe's grandfather?" Wendy seems surprised.

Bebe groans at the both of them and doesn't voice her look of concern. But it's written all over her face, which currently screams to Kenny- _'Why did you tell them?!'_

He swallows and his eyes dart to Stan and Kyle at the bar, wondering if maybe he should have done a Stan and followed Kyle blindly.

* * *

Kyle only realises he has a tail when he actually arrives at the bar and begins to order. He spots Stan pulling up next to him and acts a little surprised. "Oh. You came with me."

Stan immediately looks embarrassed. "Well, I, uh... thought you might need help carrying some of the beers…" he explains, feeling a bit silly now. "I… can go?"

"No, no. It's fine. You're one of the only people here that I actually want to talk to, anyway."

Something about that statement makes Stan light up inside, but he tries hard not to let it show. He doesn't think it would be cool, somehow. And this weird, older version of Kyle was nothing if not cooler than him.

"Heh, thanks." Stan shrugs. "If I'm totally honest, the less time I spend with Cartman, the better this whole ordeal will be on my mental health," he cracks a wan smile as he catches the bartenders eye and orders six whiskey fireballs. The bartender shoots him a crappy glance as if to say _'really? On a Sunday night_?' but obliges. Stan doesn't respond. This bartender is not as cute as the one from the other night, so he shrugs and lets it go.

"Jesus, Stan. Do you really need six?" Kyle laughs.

"No. You need three, and _I_ need three," he grins, picking one up. "Let's get through this."

"I have work tomorrow!" Kyle exclaims.

"So do _I_," Stan shrugs with a teasing grin. "You're young, live your life."

Kyle frowns. "Wait, really?" he scratches his stubble, trying to figure that one out. "I hadn't thought of that. How are you going to get back to South Park in time?"

Stan waves his concerns away. "I work late tomorrow. Start at eleven. I'll just head off early in the morning and sober up on the journey."

"But how are you going to drive-"

"I'll get a train and a bus, or some crap. Besides, my car broke down on the way here. Bebe gave us a ride in her car. So it's not like we had any other option. Worst comes to worst, I'll call in sick or get a taxi. Whatever, dude." he shrugs carelessly. "This is a tomorrow problem."

Kyle seems placated, if not entirely reassured by this. Either way, he's significantly distracted when the bartender plonks six drinks down in front of the both of them. Stan's waving a twenty at the guy but Kyle makes him put it away. "No, no. On me, man… you're visiting. This is your birthday weekend, anyway."

"Ack…" Stan shrugs. "Fine, fine."

A thought suddenly occurs to Kyle. "Hey, I wonder if those guys realised that they didn't give me any drinks orders. They just assumed I would get a round of beers… you think we should buy really terrible drinks for everyone? Just so they feel bad and have to drink them?"

Stan snorts. "Okay. For starters, Wendy hates Bailey's, so we're ordering her a…" he narrows his eyes, staring at the cocktail menu. "A… slippery nipple."

"Ooh, ok!" Kyle rubs his hands together with glee. "And Cartman's getting… five shots of absinthe. That oughta knock the guy out, don't you think?"

"Give Bebe the absinthe. Don't you remember what Cartman was like drunk? He's a fucking terror." Stan looks up to see Kyle shooting him a wild look, and laughs. "Okay, more so than usual. Cartman can have something gross. Like, I dunno. A lemonade but we'll dump a load of salt into it, alright?"

"And hot sauce." Kyle adds.

"Yes, and hot sauce!" Stan giggles. "Now just Kenny."

They each wonder for a while, and then a giggle escapes Stan's lips. "The girliest drink. Pretend it's his usual."

Kyle scans the menu. "This," he points at one. "A pink raspberry cosmopolitan?"

"Perfect!"

The two boys bust a gut laughing and Stan holds up his whiskey fireball. "Cheers to that," he says and Kyle clinks his glass against Stan's before they both guzzle their drinks in one.

Kenny's eyes wander over to the two of them just as he's regretting having to hang out with Cartman tonight and he spots them in the act. "What the fuck…? Are those guys taking shots? _Without me_?"

He's outraged for a second, but then the outrage succumbs to being pleased that his friends were finally on speaking terms again. After all, it was long overdue.


	9. a bucket of wings

To say that Stan is confused when he wakes up the next morning doesn't quite cut it.

Monday morning, when he lifts the covers from above his eyeline and groans at the light pouring in through the window, his memory remains completely blank.

He doesn't remember leaving the bar that night, let alone getting here.

The only thing he can figure out from immediate evidence is that he's sleeping on Kyle's couch, and that he's still wearing the same clothes he was wearing at the bar. A tentative sniff reveals what he pretty much expected to be true: he smells. _Bad_.

It's a pleasant mixture of BO and beer, and it's making him want to hurl all over again.

He stretches his legs out and sits upright, trying to figure out the best way go about the hangover. With a scramble around near his feet, he manages to locate his phone. The screen is smashed to smithereens and a quick attempt to turn it on reveals that it's tragically out of battery.

"Shit," he curses, dropping it back onto the couch with a 'thump'. His head hits the back of the cushion and he sighs. "What the hell…?"

There's no movement to speak of at all in Kyle's whole apartment. Stan has a foggy memory of Kyle saying something about working tomorrow, which makes sense, after all. It was Monday.

With a start, Stan's stomach drops as he remembers that he is also supposed to be in work today.

"Crap, crap, _crap_," he starts to repeat over and over, scrambling around Kyle's lounge to locate some sort of charger which will fit his phone so he can check the time – find out if there's time to hightail it back to South Park to start his working day, or at the very least, call his manager to say he's going to be sick today.

It seems to take forever for his phone to charge up enough even to turn on, his heart thudding the entire time. Eventually, the little white apple does appear on his cracked screen and he breathes a small sigh of relief that at least the phone is still working.

He's had worse experiences.

"C'mon," he tells his phone. His stomach drops even more when the thing flashes up the time on the screen.

12:26.

"_No_!" he cries, squeezing his eyes shut as his head spins; pressure building up in his skull. "SHIT!"

He sits back down on the couch and places his head in his hands. He's on his last warning with work already; he's not sure how he's going to spin this one.

He decides that inaction is not the right way to go, so with a shaking hand, he dials his manager's number.

It rings three times, and eventually Mr. Patel picks up.

"H-hello? Mr. Patel?"

"Mr. Marsh. Can I help you?"

"I just wanted to say how sorry I am that I didn't manage to come in today, I… I just wasn't feeling so great this morning and I didn't manage to text because I-"

"Oh," Mr Patel drones. "Didn't you get my e-mail? I swapped around some shifts. You weren't scheduled to come in today at all. You _will_ have to do ten hours on Wednesday, though."

Stan closes his eyes in silent relief. "Oh… uh…" he thinks on his feet. "No, I knew that. I just… I thought that you might want an extra hand and I was just phoning to say that I couldn't make it because I'm not feeling great…" he pieces together the excuse on the spot.

It's not very convincing.

"Mm-hm." Mr Patel says, sounding unconvinced to his very core. "Thanks for phoning. I will see you tomorrow, Mr Marsh. Do not be late for work. I am sure that I do not have to remind you that you're on your last warning."

The phone clicks out with a dull tone before Stan can even say goodbye. He throws the phone down on the couch again, rubbing his brows with stress.

Despite being a staunch atheist, he finds himself thanking every God that had ever existed or would ever exist for what had just transpired.

* * *

It doesn't take him very long after that to locate Kenny, who has unsurprisingly spent yet another night at Bebe's place.

He deems himself fit and sober enough to drive his shitty car back to South Park with the two of them in it, all the while inwardly trying desperately to remember if he had said anything too embarrassing the previous night.

In the backseat, Kenny lies on his back with his eyes closed.

"Man, that chick is wild, huh?" he asks Stan, a faint smile playing on his lips as he remembers the night before.

"I don't need to know, man," Stan makes a face of disgust. "I've got my own problems."

Kenny laughs. "Just because you're gay, doesn't mean you have to act so grossed out by vagina all the time. It's a wonderful thing," he sighs in pleasure.

"If you recall correctly, I've actually _slept_ with girls, asshole," Stan corrects his friend. "And it just so happens that penis is _far_ less gross."

"Remind me what exactly about sweaty balls is better than a lovely supple vagina?!" Kenny squawks in indignation, sitting up suddenly.

Stan recoils in horror. "Don't say the word '_supple_'!" he chastises his friend. "I don't want to hear that word in relation to _anything_, let alone vaginas…"

"Vagina, singular." Kenny lies back down as his hangover forces him to. "Man, I'm telling you. I could start a religion devoted to that chick. She is one crazy _mama_ in the sack..."

"Kenny, shut up." Stan takes a firm tone. "Seriously. You're bordering on misogynistic."

"I can't help it if I'm addicted to _dat sweet poontang_!" Kenny begins to milk it, just to annoy Stan. "You're missing out, seriously."

Stan blinks, his eyes physically hurting behind his scalp from his hangover. He shakes his head, gripping the wheel harder. "I don't recall being invited to that threesome," he jokes. "Besides. I spent pretty much all weekend with Kyle."

"Aw, see. I just knew you guys would sort everything out!" Kenny replies enthusiastically. "Hey, the three of us should hang out sometime, now that you're both buddies again. _Sans_ Cartman, obviously. I miss Kyle!"

Stan opens his mouth to object, and then closes it again. He's not sure what there is to say, other than that he really had had a nice time with Kyle this weekend. But… there was a niggling feeling of doubt eating away in his chest.

Had he really done something stupid last night? Kyle had been nowhere to be seen, and Stan had woken up with zero memory of the night before…

He had no reason to suspect that he'd done anything, and yet the whole situation didn't bode well with him.

"Yeah… maybe." he drawls a noncommittal agreement.

"Hey... you're being awkward. Did you guys make out again?" Kenny asks, excitedly.

Stan ignores the question and stares at the road with a fierce intensity, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.

"Sta-an?" Kenny calls in a singsong voice. He's about to tell his friend to shut the hell up again, but he gets lucky, because at that moment they drive past a big sign for a Kentucky Fried Chicken. Kenny stares admiringly out his window at the signage. "Oh, dude, I _need_ fried chicken right now. You gotta pull over, okay?"

Stan dutifully pulls over, grateful that Kenny's need for his post-drinking grease fix happens to be greater than his undying need for gossip about Stan's pathetic love life.

And for the second time in one day, Stan finds himself thanking a God he doesn't believe in.


	10. a bad italian accent

**I haven't totally abandoned this!**

* * *

Wednesday rolls around. Stan, as a senior member of the Complaints department, gets to spend the morning cheerfully arguing with angry fifty-somethings on the phone about their broadband coverage.

His entire job is essentially to keep customers on the phone for as long as possible, without hanging up, but without ever actually admitting fault. Which led to some rather hilarious conversations, occasionally.

Take right now, for example:

"Let me just direct you to our company policy, _sir_, which is that we do not recognise responsibility for situations we deem out of our hands – pursuant to paragraph forty-seven of the contract you signed with us – entitled 'Acts of God' on the third page." Stan says. His voice reminds him of one of those retail voices he hates so much; when your voice is just cheery enough that is mostly masks the utter despair and contempt lurking just beneath.

"What the fuck does that mean?" the redneck voice on the other end, complete with southern twang, retorts.

"It _means_ that we're not liable to cover the damage if the damage itself was resultant of something, for example an electrical storm, which couldn't reasonably have been anticipated by us-"

"And what in tarnation does _that_ mean?"

Stan's eyes flit around the room. He's alone. "It _means_ you signed a contract, now you gotta pay for your own damn repair!" he hisses into the receiver.

"Listen, you little twerp, how dare you speak to me like that! I'm a paying customer!"

Stan yawns and twirls the telephone cord around his fingers. "I assure you, we'll book the callout. But you gotta pay," he says bluntly. "Or else expect a call from our lawyers."

"Lawyers? What kind of black market shady broadband operations are you idiots running?"

"A big one." Stan answers flippantly, opening his desk drawer and quickly flicking through. He pulls out a magazine dated a few weeks ago and places it down in front of him.

"I want to speak to the manager!"

"As you wish, sir," Stan stifles a laugh, holding his hand momentarily over the receiver on the phone. When he's collected himself, he changes his accent to a deep, Texan drawl. "Hello there. This is the general manager of CoData broadband speaking, how may I help you?"

"I-is this the manager?" the voice stammers back, clearly confused.

"That's right," Stan drawls. "And I must insist that you pay my employees with a little respect. Mr. Marsh is one of our finest telephone complaints associates, I'll have you know!" he lays it on a little thick, but Mr. Redneck on the other end still doesn't seem to notice.

"I pay fifty dollars a month for this service! Why can't you fix it? The storm messed it all up!"

"Well, sir, I would love to help. But you see – let me just direct you to our company policy," he stifles another giggle, repeating the same spiel from last time. "We do not recognise responsibility for situations we deem out of our hands – pursuant to paragraph forty-seven of the contract you signed with us – entitled 'Acts of God' on the third page!"

He can hear the anger bristling from the other end of the line.

"That's what that other twerp said, too!"

"That's our company policy, sir," Stan repeats in the same drawl. "Would you like to speak to… _my_ manager?" he asks with a gleam in his eye.

"Yes!" comes the furious reply.

"Well, that's dandy. Won't you just hold on for a second-" Stan pretends to walk up to the door, and then sits back down in his chair.

"Hello?" the voice calls on the other end, after about a minute of radio silence.

"Ciao, signore. This is the owner and proprietor of CoData!" Stan fakes an egregious Italian accent, this time. He even twirls a fake moustache, despite the fact that whoever is on the phone can't hear him. "I understand that you have a _problemo~_?"

"Y-yes, my… broadband has been knocked out…" the voice comes back, sounding a little incredulous. "Is this… is this really the owner?"

"Si, si. I'm the CEO of this here fine establishment, and-" Stan accent begins to slip into a Godfather-esque parody of Don Corleone against his better wishes. "And I say that you better start respectin' my employees here, or I'll be forced to-"

"_Hey_!" the redneck cuts him off. "This isn't the CEO! This is that twerp from before!" the voice suddenly rages on the other end. Stan puts a hand against the receiver again, his shoulder shaking with laughter at his own antics. He can still hear the man raging away on the other end of the line. "Was that you doing the other voice too?! What the _hell_ kind of hack complaints department is this!"

Stan tries to reply, but he's still giggling too much. If he's learned anything in this position, it's _never_ to give away when he's laughing.

"Speak for yourself, you coward!" the voice comes at him again.

Stan takes his hand off the receiver and breathes in and out once. Then he goes back to his usual speaking voice: "I can tell you same thing in fourteen different accents, sir. We're. Not. Paying," he enunciates, starting to get a little bored. "Build a bridge. Get over it."

"Why! You _little_-!"

"And need I remind you that you also owe us two hundred bucks in outstanding fees, so you can start by paying that, too," Stan points out, staring at the information popping up on his screen. "Unless you'd like me to make a few calls to our lawyers, and then…"

"No need!" the voice suddenly says, brusquely. "I'm paying that today. This week. I just need a few days, for fuck's sake." There's a muffled string of expletives. "Goddamn, kid…"

Stan turns on his hyper-retail voice again. "Thank you for calling the complaints department of CoData! Your complaint is taken very seriously by us-"

"Go fuck yourself," the voice spits, and the receiver beeps.

He's hung up.

Stan waits a full second before allowing himself to erupt into full laughter. He only gets to enjoy his own entertainment for about twenty seconds, though, because there's a tentative knock on the office door, and Stan has to quickly compose himself.

"Uh… come in?" he calls. The door opens and a short brunette steps into the room. "Hey, Rachel."

"Stan?" Rachel asks, confused. "Why are you in Patel's office?" she wonders aloud, looking around. "Are you messing with customers again?" she asks, hand on a hip and a sassy look in her eye.

Stan grins from ear to ear. "You caught me!" he puts his hands in the air as if she's going to arrest him. "Patel's out. So I'm camping in his office for the time being. I have say, it's a lot more fun in here than I expected it to be."

"You do realise if he finds you, he's going to actually murder you, right?" Rachel laughs.

Stan shrugs. "Why? Literally my only job is to refuse complaining customers a refund without hanging up on them." He inspects his nails. "And I do a pretty good job of it, if you ask me."

"Accents again?" she rolls her eyes.

"You know it!"

"Stan, didn't you learn your lesson last time? It's twenty-twenty! You can't go and imitate an Indian man over the phone any more!" she reprimands him, and then hesitates. "…especially not with your second-rate 'Apu' imitation," she adds insult to injury.

Stan clutches his chest as if he's wounded, and then his face falls flat. "Relax, thought police. I've learned my lesson. I didn't do any accents that would be seen as racist. Unless you count Italian as a race…?" he adds, thoughtfully.

"Goddammit, Marsh," Rachel sighs, exasperated. "You did an Italian accent?"

"Well, it started out more… Mario, than I intended. And then I might've morphed into Don Corleone."

Rachel can't help but splutter with laughter. "_Jesus_. You're heading for the trash," she comments, a little wry smile plucking the corners of her mouth upward. "Look, I came in to ask I you wanted some coffee – admittedly, I thought you were Mr. Patel, but…"

"Coffee would be awesome," he beams at her. "Are you free for lunch today?"

"At one," she pauses thoughtfully. "Then, maybe, you can tell me all about your weekend in Denver? I want to hear all about it."

Stan smiles. "Yeah, that would be cool. Thanks, Rach," he replies. She exits the room, and his phone, which he's plugged into Patel's office, rings again.

He waits six whole rings and then sighs, picking it up.

"Hello, you've reached the voicemail of ComData customer support line. We're busy right now but your Kyle is especially important to-" he coughs and splutters for a second, realising what he's said. "your… _call_… is very important to us," he clarifies, carefully. "Please hold on a minute and we'll be right with you."

He balances the phone on the table and places his head in his hands.

Had he really just said 'Kyle' instead of 'call'?

It's true that he had been thinking about Kyle a lot today, ever since the weekend. Despite his best efforts to keep busy with nonsense at work, the boy just kept slipping into his mind.

The way he'd looked in that black pea-coat of his.

The way he'd grown up.

His voice, deeper and decidedly… gravelly.

Playing video games at Kyle's apartment.

The smell of Kyle's bedsheets…

_Dammit_.

Stan curls his fists into his tufts of hair, as a reminder not to let himself go down this road. He's been down this road before – in fact, he was this road's best friend. It didn't exactly end well last time. Well, more precisely, it had ended in a huge falling out and several years of non-friendship.

Stan's not sure he wants to lose his friend so readily this time.

And speaking of Kyle, Stan just knows that he would would get a kick out of his Don Corleone impression. He's tempted to blow off this phone call, mostly because he hates his job and he suddenly desperately wants to hear the sound of Kyle's laugh.

Eyeing up his phone, he bites his lip and despite the rules of his job – presses quickly against the big red button. A split second later he's dialling Kyle's number, waiting patiently with the phone ringing against his ear…

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

"Hello? This is Kyle's phone, he's at work right now... can I help?"

It's a female voice.

Stan slams the phone down in surprise.

That must've been Kyle's girlfriend, he thinks in horror. Nothing about the situation was horrifying, but still, Stan hadn't been prepared to hear her voice. So relaxed and girlish. So… so _not_ Stan.

He bites his lip and dials another number instead.

It picks up after only one ring.

"Yo, sup man?"

"Hey Ken," Stan starts, swallowing. "I want to go out drinking tonight. And… if you can score some gear from Craig, I'll give you the money later."

"Yes!" Kenny's voice rings back excitedly. "My man!"

"Later, dude," Stan replies and places the phone down. He pauses for a second, a gnawing feeling beginning to take root in his stomach and in his gut. He rests his head on his hands and sighs.

At least he had something to look forward to, now. Even if it was just a night out with Kenny and a load of drugs.

The phone rings again; a customer; and Stan's stomach sinks in dismay.


	11. a phone call

**Seem to have a strange new motivation to write this story atm**

* * *

Corporate white noise was the bane of his life. By that, Kyle means the constant hum and buzz of productivity which characterises his life inside his office. Stapler punches, phones ringing, the tapping of keys, people talking quietly by the water cooler, the occasional beep of an answering machine…

They go on and on and on. They never stop. The little noises in between every waking moment of his life; just another person in a little suit making business noises.

It gave him a splitting headache, punctuating his misery and adding insult to the already grievous injury of his eleven-hour workday.

It hadn't been eleven hours when he started, though. It had just grown that way, over time, as he had taken on more and more work. With higher pay comes higher hours, he thinks tiredly. He's regretting that now, sort of. He's been up since 5am and he only slept for one hour last night.

Something had kept him up, though nothing real. Just his brain, buzzing at full volume without any hope of stopping until the early hours of the morning.

His eyes hurt, parsing through a spreadsheet, as he hears a voice cut through the white noise.

"Did you manage to sort through those CV's?" the voice asks.

Kyle doesn't look away from his screen. "Yes," he says quietly, rummaging through a desk drawer and handing his colleague a small stack of crisp white paper. "Here."

"Hey, thanks," Jack replies with a smile. "So, uh, what's up with you? You seem distracted."

Kyle takes a second to look from his computer screen to Jack, his eyes dry and bloodshot. "I didn't sleep much, last night."

Jack grins. "Lauren keep you up?" he says knowingly, raising his eyebrows. "You are one lucky fella. That girl is _smoking_."

Kyle screws up his face. "Uh, no. I just… I had a lot to think about."

He decides not to mention Stan.

Jack makes a grimace face. "Well, don't tell me. I don't want to hear about your relationship, man. I've got my own problems to deal with!"

"Like what?" Kyle raises a single brow, skeptical.

"Like the fact that _you're_ getting more action than me!" he bemoans. "I haven't been laid in weeks," he moans, waving the wad of paper at his colleague. "I'm telling you, dude, this stack had better be full of hot chicks. Or I'm gonna cry."

Kyle makes a noise of derision. "Remind me again how the hell you got into Harvard business school?" he asks.

Jack laughs. "I'm book smart."

"Yeah, street stupid," Kyle frowns. "Can you just get me whatever info you can on the lawsuit? I want to know how my deposition went."

"You nervous, Kylie boy?" Jack taunts. "Don't worry, if we lose, the company will pay. Not us."

Kyle rolls his eyes. "Um, yeah. I am actually. I'm not really a fan of getting sued, in case you hadn't noticed. And what do you think happens to the us if the company gets accused of bank fraud?" he asks, rhetorical. "For someone who is supposedly book smart, you sure are _slow_."

Jack looks horrified. "Wait, what?" he says. "I'd better not lose my job over this!"

Kyle just shrugs and goes back to staring at his computer. "You better get me that info, then, so I can feed it back to Beth in a timely fashion," he replies in a dull voice. "Or else we'll lose our jobs."

Jack rushes away with a candour that Kyle's literally never seen before, and in his wake, he releases a big sigh. The corporate white noise settles unpleasantly back into his earshot, and he mutters to himself. "In my _dreams_."

At exactly six o clock, Stan's phone rings again. His heartbeat speeds up as he sees the number that pops up on the screen – Kyle.

Why is Kyle calling him?

He picks up and bites his lip. "Hello?" he says quietly.

"Hey, dude, it's me. You… called me, earlier?" he asks, on the other end.

"Oh, uh. Yeah. Something… funny happened, at work. I wanted to tell you, so I called. And then, uh, some lady picked up…"

"That was my coworker," Kyle explains. "I left my phone in a meeting room. She picked it up for me. She said you called and then immediately hung up?" he snickers on the other end of the phone. "What happened?"

Stan chuckles, breathing a sigh of relief. So it hadn't been Kyle's girlfriend he'd spoken to, after all. "Oh, nothing. My… my boss walked in, so I had to look busy."

"Ah," Kyle nods in understanding. "So what happened?"

"Huh?"

"The funny thing?" Kyle probes. "What was the funny thing that you wanted to tell me?"

Stan laughs. "Oh, it's dumb, really," he smiles, blushing. "Well, it was just that I was doing accents over the phone. To my customers…" he starts to explain, immediately wondering why on earth he thought this would be a good idea. A wave of relief comes over him when Kyle chortles on the other end.

"Oh, go on. Let me hear."

Stan smiles wide. "It's terrible. Unforgivably so," he admits, slipping into the voice from before. "It started out like Mario and ended up like Godfather."

Kyle makes a face. "That's a bad accent." He laughs. "Besides, you get Robert De Niro wrong," he corrects. "If you wanna do Corleone," Kyle starts doing the accent, too. "You gotta stick your jaw out real far and mumble all your words, sounding real disappointed…"

Stan giggles. "Okay, your Corleone puts me to shame."

"You do a better Aussie than me, if I remember correctly."

"Well crikey, of course I do – I only bloody grew up watching the crocodile hunter, didn't I?!" Stan launches into his terrible Steve Irwin impression, and Kyle groans.

"I take that back."

"Sorry," Stan laughs. "Anyway, I didn't mean to bother you. I was just bored at work, I guess."

Kyle smiles. "Yeah, I can relate," he agrees. "It was… it was really cool seeing you this weekend, Stan," he says, his voice genuine. "I missed you."

Stan tries in vain to stop his heart swelling in his chest. "Hey… uh, why don't I pop up to Denver this weekend? I've got nothing planned, and Kenny mentioned something about seeing Bebe," he lies. "If you're free, obviously," he adds quickly, a disclaimer.

Kyle eyes the huge amount of paperwork on his desk that he was planning to do over the weekend.

"Uh… yeah," he says after a brief second. "Yeah, this weekend is good. I'll see you Friday? We can go to that same bar. Bring Kenny, I'll get in touch with Wendy."

Stan grins. "See you then!"

"Yeah… bye, Stan." Kyle clicks off the phone. The paperwork on his desk laughs at him.

It was only Wednesday, but this week was going to be one of the longest of his life, he suspects.

* * *

And that is the short story of why Stan ends up in a car full of booze and heading to Denver on a Friday evening.

He was aware that it probably wasn't exactly healthy for him to go out drinking a total of four days in one week, but… well, it had never stopped him when he was younger. Just because the hangover was worse now, doesn't mean he should have less fun. That's how Stan rationalises it, anyway.

There was probably a good reason why his bank funds were always so low.

"Are we going to make this a weekly thing, now?" Kenny asks from the backseat, chewing on a strip of salami. "Because I'm up for it. But I don't think Bebe will be," he points out.

Stan shakes his head. "No, just this weekend. Besides, Wendy's only about in Denver for a couple more weeks. I thought we could make the most of it, don't you think?" Stan suggests.

Kenny narrows his eyes and thoughtfully places his salami snack to his side for a moment. "Stan. What's going on with you and Kyle? I gotta know, so that when it all goes tits up – I know what to do."

Stan makes a noise of frustration, deep in his throat. "Look, it's really not a big deal. He apologised, we talked it out… and now, we're talking again. It's nice. I mean, there was a _reason_ why we were always such good friends," Stan replies. "We just get along."

Kenny coughs. "Well, dude. I don't wanna get all sentimental with you, but… just, be careful. You don't wanna get all caught up in the same stuff that went down back in the day."

Stan splutters. "How is that going to happen again?" his face turns red as he defends himself. "I was a teenager, for God's sake. I was… I was figuring stuff out."

Kenny nods sagely, having dispensed his daily dose of wisdom for the day. "Well, cool. And hey, we could even go back to that bar? With the sexy bartender?" he wonders.

Stan grips onto the wheel tighter. "Yeah, maybe," he pauses. "You know, I could ask what the hell is going on with Bebe and you," he says thoughtfully, after a while.

Kenny laughs. "Well, there isn't much to ask. We're screwing, it's fun, whatever. I'm not exactly the long-term kinda dude that Bebe is clearly looking for, and I'm not exactly into relationships either. Well, the non-fucking kind. You know what I mean."

Stan laughs. "I'm jealous," he blurts out.

"Of… of Bebe?" Kenny frowns, confused. "Why?"

"_No_, no. Obviously not. I'm just jealous that… I dunno, you always keep everything so simple. Like never having a girlfriend, for example. It must be a lot easier."

Kenny's smile disappears and he busies himself looking out of the window, suddenly quiet. "Mm." he trails off.

Stan wonders if he's annoyed his friend for a second, and ponders on asking him why. But then, they pass a 7/11 on the route and Kenny snaps out of it, violently and suddenly.

Stan braces for impact, knowing full well what's coming from the backseat in 3…2….1….

"Can we get donuts?!"


	12. a bad idea

Friday nights in Denver were quite the crowded scene, they soon find out. Nevertheless, the five old friends find themselves quite enjoying one of the slightly quieter haunts of the city; a rock bar a few blocks away from the street they'd explored last weekend.

It's dingy, sure, but there's Fender guitars adorning the walls and Led Zeppelin on the jukebox – so Stan's happy, anyway. The place; complete with musty smell and combination clientele of young hipsters and old men; reminds him strangely of his dad. Not in an unwelcome way, though, but it reminds him of the best parts of his old man.

The part that taught him about music, for example.

They old gang find themselves slipping rather easily back into conversation after a few slightly awkward 'hello's' and in around half an hour, they let themselves slip into a natural formation.

Stan, Kyle and Wendy to your left.

Bebe and Kenny to the right.

It makes some amount of sense; but it's still noticeable enough that Kenny finds himself pointing it out to Bebe in between make-outs. "Hey, look at those three," he drawls. "I wonder who the third wheel is in that conversation?"

Bebe snorts and sips her drink with a sly smile. "If you don't already know, then you never will," she says, rather cryptically.

Kenny shrugs it off. He's got a got blonde girl on his lap, the last thing he wants to do is talk about social formations.

In some ways, it's all three of them. For example, Kyle is the only one out of the three of them who haven't been in a long-term relationship with each other. Despite the fact that Stan and Wendy weren't together now, you learned a lot about someone when you were their childhood sweetheart for over nine years.

Conversely, Stan is also the third wheel. Kyle and Wendy had enough in common – their intellect, their career paths, their hobbies… not to mention, they had been friends throughout college. Stan's always been a step behind with those two. They were the class valedictorian, the salutatorian, and he was just some stupid jock.

And yet…

And yet despite Stan's best efforts, _Wendy's_ the one who keeps getting pushed out.

Well, there was the obvious reason of course. She was the only girl, and men did have a tendency to ignore women in a large group.

But then again, Stan and Kyle were hardly your average testosterone-laden, sports-watching, beer-drinking males.

Aside from the beer, obviously.

And then there was the fact that Stan and Kyle had been inseparable throughout their school years, that definitely factored into the equation. Take two super best friends, put them through a five year falling-out, and then reunite them. It only made sense that they were desperate to catch up after such a long time.

Although, Wendy thinks sourly, aren't they _done_ catching up already?

After the fourth time she tries to steer the conversation away from secret in-jokes, or memories of their childhood that she doesn't share – she gives up. She excuses herself off to one side to check her phone, leaving the boys giggling shamelessly about something to do with Star Trek.

Dorks, she thinks.

She wanders as far as the smoking area, clicking her phone with a sigh.

_Four new text messages_, it reads.

Two are from her broadband. One is from her mother.

And other… the other is from Eric _fricking_ Cartman, of all people.

She ignores the others and curiously, she opens the one from Eric.

**-hey ho, I'm bored as fuck today. Keep me company & I'll bring you wendys?**

She makes a noise of irritation from the back of her throat. Cartman should _know_ by now that she's a vegetarian and doesn't eat-

Her phone vibrates again, interrupting that thought.

**-I'll even buy that godawful tofu crap you like. One time offer**

Despite herself, she finds herself giggling like a schoolgirl. Maybe it's because she's a little tired of playing gooseberry to Stan and Kyle, or maybe it's because he's actually remembered she's a vegetarian – but she finds herself actually wanting to see him.

Taking a sneak peek around to double-check that Stan and Kyle haven't wandered out to join her for a smoke break, she pauses, thinking hard about her response.

**-I'm alone in a sea of couples. Save me**

She laughs a little naughtily as she types out and sends the message, feeling slightly guilty. The response pings in her hand almost immediately.

**-yuck. Where?**

She pauses before replying.

**-Wesson Street. But I'll come to you, okay?**

He comes back after a while.

**-Come to…**

He sends her a long, typed out address. She's not sure whether it's his place, or a bar – but she finds herself typing the address into her phone to find out.

Oh. It's a bar.

"Hmm," she says to herself, taking a peek back inside. She wonders how possible it will be to blow off her friends tonight, especially considering that she's only back in town for a few more days – and then sighs, typing back.

-**I'll only be a few more hours. I just got here. **

**-That okay?**

She fully expects a tirade of shit to come back to her via text, but instead she just gets the following:

**-look forward to it, ho. Let me know.**

She smiles at her phone, and then look around self-consciously to see if anyone had seen her. When she ascertains that she's safe, she exhales and leans back against the brick wall. She has a moment of pause to really evaluate herself.

What was she _doing_?

Sneaking off from the friends she had kept for years to hang out with a man who had been a self-professed Nazi at the age of nine?

She must be clinically insane.

* * *

The hours seem to fly by, Stan thinks. Just shooting the shit with Kyle; chatting about old times, cracking stupid jokes… it's always been one of his favourite pastimes.

After a few hours they run out of idle conversation, and that's when they start to knock back drinks. Even Kyle, who generally prefers to stay sober, is falling off his bar stool when the late hours of the evening roll around.

Wendy makes her excuses at around 10 pm, at which point Kyle buys a round of shots for everybody left over.

At 11 pm, the group all make the collective horrible decision to wander to a nearby karaoke bar, which turns out to be a mistake. Almost immediately after setting foot inside the door, Kenny is compelled to wrestle his way to the stage and perform an absolutely ridiculous version of Destiny Child's _Bootylicious_, completely with little butt-wiggles and dances.

Bebe is transfixed. They all are. It was hard _not_ to be. It was a grown-ass white man shimmying his way across a stage and warbling out lyrics which mostly, pertained to the size of his booty.

"My body's too bootylicious for ya babe~" he sings. It serves to illuminate for the group, yet again, how completely lacking in anything remotely resembling shame the boy was.

Kyle and Stan share a look of bemusement as Kenny continues to strut and dance his way across the stage, receiving everything from cheers and whistles to cries of 'OFF, OFF, OFF!' from the amassed crowd.

Eventually, Kyle has to say something, ever the critic. "_Jesus_," he hisses. "It's like passing a car crash on the highway. It's tragic, but it's like, you can't look away…" Kyle mutters in Stan's ear.

"You want to go for a smoke?!" Stan yells over the noise, miming the cigarette motion.

Kyle nods fervently. "Anything to save my bleeding ears!"

While outside, the two boys find a neat little spot in the corner and Kyle shares his cigarettes with Stan. They can still hear the song drawing to an end, and the faint sound of Kenny being hauled off the stage. Amidst the commotion, and the growing chorus of 'boos' they hear Kenny yell into the microphone.

"You're all just not _ready_ for this jelly!"

Kyle and Stan simultaneously erupt into fits of laughter, safely outside the joint. "I hope we don't get kicked out," Kyle adds.

"Nah, it's all in the spirit of karaoke." Stan giggles. "And anyway, they don't know how good they've all got it. This is just a _preview_ of what I go through every day when he showers…" Stan remembers with a shudder. "Well, every couple of days. He's not the most hygiene-conscious…"

Kyle pauses, pondering this. "Is it… _always_ Beyoncé?" he wonders, scratching his head.

"Any pop diva," Stan replies, his face deadpan. "Bad days are when he does Christina Aguilera."

Kyle makes a face and laughs. "Love the guy, but I could _not_ live with him," he says, wrinkling up his nose. "I'm not sure how you do it, in honesty."

"Neither am I!" Stan laughs and gets another earful of Kenny's little performance. Then, he thoughtfully reaches up to talk in Kyle's ear again. "I'm a little jealous of him, you know," Stan admits. "Sometimes."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, you know. Having the confidence to just go up there and have a laugh, no consequences. He really doesn't give a crap what anybody thinks of him, and I kind of… like that. I wish I was a bit more like that."

"You aren't really _that_ self-conscious, are you?" Kyle wonders, raising a brow.

Stan shrugs. "I don't know. I care too much what people think, I guess," he admits. As the words exit his lips, Stan's forced to confront the fact that he's more than tipsy right now. He only ever really gets this introspective after about five pints, and he was well past that by now. He makes a mental note to reign it in, make sure he doesn't say anything - or do anything - he'll regret.

Kyle realises _he's_ drunk when he finds himself sending Stan a smile that one might have construed as slightly flirty, if one were to have witnessed it. "You care what _I_ think?"

Stan groans. "Oh god, too much," he rubs his face.

"Even now?"

"Even now," he adds, embarrassed. He's drunk enough to over-share but not too drunk to feel immediately awkward about it, which makes for a terrible combination.

There's a brief silence, during which the boys make an exceptionally long few seconds of eye contact and Stan realises in a moment that Kyle's literally got him with his back up against the wall. He feels a tad too vulnerable in this position, so he opens his mouth to speak; to try and make some excuse to scoot away.

Kyle beats him to the punch, breaking the silence. "That can't be much fun for you," his smile flickers up at the corners, clearly up to something. "But they do say that exposure is the best therapy," he flashes a suggestive grin.

Stan's heart thumps in his chest. "W-what?" he stutters, wondering if he's heard wrong.

Surely Kyle can't _actually _be suggesting what Stan thinks he's suggesting…

Kyle tips his head towards the bar doors, gesturing towards the karaoke stage. "You should get up and sing," he clarifies, proving Stan correct.

_Oh_.

Stan takes a second to feel like an idiot, and then replies. "No." he shakes his head. "_No_," he repeats, just in case Kyle hadn't heard him the first time. "I am _not_ going up there."

"Oh, come on," Kyle slaps him on the arm. "I'll go first."

Despite the conversation, Stan finds his mouth tugging up into a grin. "Really? You will?"

"Sure, why not? It's not like I live and work in this city, or anything..." he sniggers, sarcastic as ever.

* * *

Kyle makes good on his promise, pulling off a slightly offensive version of Vanilla Ice's '_Ice Ice Baby_', so Stan's forced to retaliate.

He good-naturedly takes up the mic and decides to go for something a little different. Doing joke songs at karaoke had become such a cliché, he wanted to do something else. And he _had_ always really liked soft rock.

He elects to go for '_Friday I'm In Love_,' by The Cure.

It turns out to be quite popular with the crowd, actually. Stan had never been a natural Cure fan, but Robert Smith had saved the town when they were quite small, and the band had become something of a favorite around these parts.

He gets a big cheer after he's finished up, and just as Stan takes a small, perfunctory bow – he sees Kyle standing over by the bar and gives him a wave. "That one was dedicated to my friend Kyle," he says into the mic, slurring a little. A cheer goes up in the bar and Kyle rolls his eyes.

"_Jesus_," he can see Kyle muttering to himself.

* * *

When Stan's back down from the stage, he plops himself down in a bar stool next to Kyle. "Woah. That was a rush."

"You were good," Kyle comments drily, picking at the label on his beer. "I forgot that you could sing."

"Oh, I'm not really that good," Stan says softly, still a little self-conscious.

Kyle snorts. "Yeah, that's why you had a hit song on the radio at the age of ten, encouraging a whole generation of people to drive Hybrid cars," he points out, rather wryly. "Or did you forget about that?"

Stan smiles faintly. "I had, actually." He scratches his head, laughing drunkenly with the memory. "You know that I only did all that because I didn't want you to move to San Francisco, right? Not because I was some woke-ass child, or anything…"

Kyle grins, and it's clear that he already knew that. "We were both woke-ass children."

"Whatever," Stan mutters into his beer.

"Hey, Stan…" Kyle starts. "You-" he gets cut off.

Kenny and Bebe approach them at the bar at that moment, cutting off whatever they were about to say. "Great job, dude!" Bebe beams. "You were _so_ good up there, Stan!"

Kenny mutters something under his breath which sounds something akin to: "You got nothin' on Queen Bey…"

Bebe giggles and jerks a thumb at the man who she's been fawning over all night. "This one is just profoundly jealous that you stole all his thunder. Don't worry about him," she says brightly. "And Kyle… that was a very… _interesting_ take on Vanilla Ice," she adds, grinning.

"Yeah, well, we can't _all_ be musically gifted," he shrugs. "Besides. They needed a palate cleanser after Kenny's godawful efforts."

"Fight me!" Kenny suddenly announces, and Bebe clings onto his arm even tighter.

"Jesus, Ken. You really don't have to live up to every single Irish stereotype, you know…" Kyle takes a step back, lest he get punched. "Should we maybe… go somewhere else?" he suggests.

Kenny and Bebe share a look. "Well, we were actually thinking of… going home. I've had a good night, and Kenny's getting a little restless," Bebe giggles, sliding her hand further and further down Kenny's back. "I ought to get him home, sort him out."

Kyle wrinkles up his nose in disgust. "Guys. _Ew_."

"See you later, folks!" Kenny says proudly. "I'll catch up with you in the morning, Stanny," he drawls.

"Yeah, yeah. Have fun."

"I will!" Kenny retorts, swaggering out of the bar with Bebe draped all over his arm. "Hasta la vista!" he calls back, just as the security guard at the door sends him a glare.

Kyle's attention turns back to Stan.

"And then there were two," Stan remarks, a little redundantly.

"What… do you want to do?"

"I'm game to stay out if you are," Stan suggests, a little hope flickering in his voice. He's not ready with tonight to be done just yet. "We could stay here. Or we could hop to another bar, if you like. It's… up to you." Stan says, looking up at Kyle expectantly.

"Hm. Well, I'm about done here," Kyle looks around, just as some poor sod is about to perform a terrible rendition of some awful country song. "But… well, I know this kinda nice cocktail place? We could go there for a few?" Kyle meets Stan's eye.

Stan looks away. "Cocktails? I'm pretty dirt poor, dude."

"Nah, it's on me. Don't worry," Kyle grins. "Come on. Follow me."

"This place is… fancy," Stan comments, gingerly sipping on a pretty pink cosmopolitan in a wide-rimmed glass in the smoking area of a rather upmarket cocktail bar. "And _I've_ never felt so bourgeois," he adds, pulling on his cigarette in the cold Colorado air and sighing with contentment.

Kyle's eyes crinkle at the sides with laughter, placing his own drink – some rum concoction down on the side. "I'm way too drunk to enjoy this properly," he comments, looking around them at the few other smokers milling around. "I usually come here with work."

"How can you afford these?" Stan asks, a little incredulous. "Each of these drinks was something like ten bucks each."

Kyle shrugs. "Work usually pays…"

"_Jesus_," Stan remarks, a little enviously. He stares down at his drink. "This is supposed to be strong. But I can't taste it," he complains, after another delicate little sip.

"Well, you are pretty wasted already."

"Aren't you?" Stan frowns. "Or have you been trying to get me drunk this whole time?" he adds, only half-joking.

Kyle makes a face. "You didn't exactly need help, did you?"

"Hey!"

Kyle places his hands up defensively, not wanting to start an argument. Although, Stan's inebriated enough that the only fight he could possibly put up right now would probably resemble that of an aggravated teddy, so maybe Kyle shouldn't have worried.

Stan has another gulp of his drink and then places it down, deciding that now is the time to get real.

"So," he starts, slowly. "Tell me about your girlfriend."

Kyle bites the side of his lip. "Uh… why?"

"Because! We're friends again, so I need to know all about your life. Tell me!"

Kyle clears his throat. "Fine," he replies, clearly embarrassed. "She's… a medical student here. Her family are from Denver. Her name is Lauren. She's Jewish…" he reams off.

Stan pauses. "Wow, that is so not the information that I needed."

"Well, what information did you need, then?" Kyle splutters, surprised. "I'm just telling you what I told my mother."

"Yeah, and I'm not your mother. I want to know the juicy stuff. How did you meet, what's she like… all that crap," Stan asks, suddenly desperate to know all about this mysterious girl. He must be some kind of emotional masochist, he thinks, if he's asking.

Or perhaps he's self-sabotaging. By hearing all about Kyle's girlfriend and how wonderful/lovely she is, he can effectively have his heart broken all over again. And then he can _finally_ get real about how Kyle is never going to feel the same way.

"She's… nice," he replies, hesitant. "Look, I don't know what you want to hear. Lauren is…" he runs a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. "Lauren is like how you and I would have described someone like Annie, at school," he starts.

Stan is taken aback. "What does _that_ mean?"

"Y'know, that she's nice, pretty, successful…" he trails off. It occurs to Stan that although those words are all compliments, they read like insults on Kyle's lips. "She's… safe. My parents like her."

Stan blinks. "Do _you_ like her?" he's forced to ask, a little incredulous. "Doesn't she _live_ with with you?"

Kyle shrugs. "She stays over… a lot. But I wasn't really ready to move in just yet, I guess."

"What's stopping you?"

Kyle sighs and looks up at his old friend; the old brown eyes that he's known through childhood. "Can I be honest with you? No judgement?"

Stan nods, rapturous to hear the rest. "Sure, man, always."

"I don't know what it is. She's _too_ perfect, I guess. Perfect in the kind of, squeaky clean kind of way – do you understand?" Kyle doesn't pause for Stan to answer his rhetorical question. "She's uncomplicated, and easygoing, and nice, and straightforward and she's basically marriage material, all wrapped up in a nice Jewish girl…" Kyle pinches the bridge of his nose with a forefinger and his thumb.

"But you don't love her?"

"No," Kyle answers, without a second's hesitation.

"Why not?"

"You can't just ask why a person doesn't love another person, dude, it doesn't work that way. I don't know why I don't. I just _don't._" He pauses_._ "I told her I did. I don't know why I did that, either," Kyle begins to sound agitated. "She's exactly what was expected, so she's exactly what I did. My parents never liked the girls I used to date in high school," he points out. "Red was too much of a tomboy, Bebe was too much of a... well, what my _mother_ would call a slut, anyway. And the girls I dated in college – well, the ones who were girls, anyway – they were all too rebellious. Or not studying rigorous enough subjects. Or… something else, that my mother would have disapproved of," Kyle sighs. "You don't get it. I just… I just wanted an easy life."

"You don't want an easy life," Stan laughs, shaking his head in disagreement. "You've never wanted an easy life."

"What does that mean?"

"All your life, you've _always_ done things the hard way. Chosen to fight battles that were easier ignored. Chosen to stand up to people like Cartman who would make your life tougher time and time again. That's exactly what you like to do, man, what happened?" Stan retorts.

"What happened indeed…" Kyle groans into his hands. "I got older, and I realised that you can't just go around learning lessons and preaching morality all the time. Eventually you have to get a job, to get a wife, get a house and fucking... live your life."

The words stick around for longer than he wants.

Stan takes a lot time to reply, and when he does, he speaks slowly – trying to cut through his current state of intoxication with a glimmer of meaning. "Why? Why do you have to do any of that? Me and Kenny, we didn't do that. Cartman didn't do that. Bebe didn't." Stan throws his hands up in the air. "Why?" he asks again.

Kyle shakes his head. "_Because," _he hisses. "I'm the responsible one, don't you get it? I'm the one who has his shit together even while the whole world is going to _crap_ and everyone else is falling apart. I'm the happy, successful, normal one."

Stan flinches away from the words. "So am I falling apart, do you think?"

Kyle groans. "Come on, don't focus on that. I wasn't talking about you. You're different."

Stan puts a hand on his friend's arm, his fingers curling into the soft fabric of his coat. His words come out gently. "Okay, fine, I'll bite. If this bothers you so much, then why not make a decision? Do something else?" he suggests. "Break away from what you think you're expected to do. Do the opposite."

Kyle looks up from his hands, suddenly very aware of how close Stan is standing to him, and how drunk they both are.

Stan's hands are already on Kyle's arms, holding him in place as a slight wind blows through his hair. He notes, a little absently, that they were the same height. They had never used to be the same height – all throughout school, Stan was always a couple of inches taller.

And now they were equals.

"Do the opposite?" he asks softly, staring searchingly into Stan's eyes and turning to face him fully. "What is the opposite?" his eyes fall, for the briefest of seconds, down to Stan's mouth and then back up.

"I could show you…" he hears himself saying, and then his brain kicks into action.

_No… no, this is dangerous territory._

Kyle asks _how_.

Stan opens his mouth, and then closes it. He forces himself, despite how foggy his current state of mind is, to remove his hands from his friend. He takes a small step backward and a deep breath in, attempting to take back control of the situation. "Look… I don't know," he replies, in a careful measure. He takes a quick glance inside, and shudders. "M-maybe we shouldn't have stayed out," he mutters, trying to defuse the ticking time bomb in his chest.

"Yes, we should have," Kyle corrects him. "What's wrong?"

_Kyle knows. He knows what he's doing right now._

"Come on, Kyle," Stan pleads, his voice nervous. "I can't do this. I… we should go inside, don't you think? It's cold out here…"

"I'm not cold," Kyle points out. "And besides. There are better ways to get warm," his smile flickers up, making Stan's toes curl in his boots. "Come on, I want you to tell me. What is the opposite? What's the thing I should do?"

"I… I _can't_," he hisses. "I can't tell you," Stan bites his lip, so hard that he begins to be able to taste blood. His pulse quickens and he's sure that Kyle is playing with him.

"Then… I want you to show me."

_Oh, fuck it._

Stan's not made of steel, for God's sake. On a _sober_ day, he'd struggle to resist this possessive, dominant tone of Kyle's, and he's not even remotely sober.

He closes the gap between them in a split second, pressing his lips against Kyle's. It's half out of gratification and half out of a need to get Kyle to shut up – but whatever it is, it _works_.

The warm immediately explodes out his chest through his fingertips. Stan's arms snake up to Kyle's head, his gloved fingers curling ardently in that curly, red hair. He pulls the boy closer to him, feeling his body heat radiating into Stan as Kyle reacts, placing his own hands on Stan's waist to steady the boy.

Relief floods his veins when he realises that Kyle's kissing him back, with just as much fervour.

It feels like a first, for some reason. It's not the first time they've done this, in actual fact. They've kissed before, a few times – but never with quite the same context. Never the same disposition. Kissing Kyle feels the same as it had before, but it's the way he kisses back that has changed, somehow.

There's a limit to how long you can kiss someone before you run out of breath.

Stan bites his lip and pulls away, not meeting Kyle's eye. "I… I…" he starts to stammer. "Sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Kyle wonders. "Don't answer that," he suddenly adds, a thoughtful expression on his face as he leans towards Stan again.

This time, he doesn't kiss him. This time, he whispers something in his friend's ear. Something that sends shivers through Stan's bones and electricity through his veins.

"Let's go back to mine," he says.

_Why did horrible ideas seem so good when you were drunk?_


	13. a namesake lunch

Eric Cartman is a nervous wreck.

He glances down at the phone in his hand for what seems like the fiftieth time in the last few minutes.

It's on vibrate, so he knows that even _checking_ is completely stupid. Despite this; he still checks anyway. His nerves are clearly getting the better of him, and he's nervous for no reason, too, because he doesn't care about that stupid hoe Wendy and whether she shows up or not.

Which she might not.

His stomach flips over in a rather unsettling fashion.

No texts.

She would be well within her right not to show up, he thinks. It's not like he'd ever been especially nice to the girl – the constant insult-slinging, the harassment, the general weirdness… Cartman had always been profoundly aware of the effect he had on other people.

It was just that usually, he was hard-pressed to give a shit.

His stomach flips even harder when he sees a purple blob in the distance, bobbing up and down the road.

Subconsciously, he checks his reflection in his phone.

_Sweaty._

_Sweaty and fat._

"Why do I bother?" he mutters, shoving the offending device back into his trouser pocket. "Sup," he nods, mimicking the nod of someone who was being casual, and cool. Like Kenny, or someone. Someone relaxed. "Sup," he practices again, clearing his throat as Wendy spies him from a few yards away and smiles in recognition.

She waves as she rounds the corner and greets him with a beaming smile. "Heya."

"Soup," he blurts out, immediately cursing himself for his endless stupidity. "Uh, I mean. Sup."

She smiles warmly. She's so warm that it hurts to look at, so Cartman looks away. "So, uh. We're here. Wesson Street. What exactly did you want to do, now?" she pauses and frowns at his empty hands. "And where's my Wendy's?!"

He laughs lowly. "Relax, we'll walk there now. I'm hungry now."

Wendy shrugs and follows Cartman as he walks down the street, quickly falling instep with him. She makes a few awkward attempts at chatter as they wander over one block, but Cartman doesn't seem particularly interested in talking to her.

It's strange, because despite how much she despises this man – all she suddenly wants to do is impress him. And she can't. Everything she comes up with is batted away with some blunt response.

Sitting down at the booth in Wendy's, Wendy is forced to look around at the tragic excuse for a restaurant that she shares a name with. It's pretty much empty, save for a few gothic-looking kids sipping some coffee and trying really hard to look like they didn't care what anyone thought.

The waitress cleaning tables looks downright pissed off – and she probably has reason to be. There are stains all down her apron. Wendy guesses that it's probably not been a good shift for the poor lady.

And who _would_ be happy working here? It's a bleak existence, no doubt. The air smells of fries, the floor is always sticky and the pay is probably garbage.

Sipping meekly at the coffee she ordered, she frowns up at her unnaturally silent company. "Can I ask you a question?" she broaches, breaking the silence.

He nods, so she continues a little tentatively. "Well… how come you wanted to hang out? You never usually want to hang out with me… and even now, you don't really want to seem to talk to me at all," she admits.

There's a small pause as Cartman fiddles with some ketchup packets and thinks hard about his response.

"You're not an idiot," Cartman replies, seeming a little reluctant to answer at all. "That immediately puts you one step ahead of about 90% of the rest of the population."

Wendy opens her mouth to retaliate, and then closes it again. She had been about to disagree, before it clicked in her mind that that he was probably correct. She tries something else. "Well, so what? Kyle is smart, and you hate him."

Cartman's eyes gleam and he manages a smile through that thick frown. "Yeah, but… well, who did I always spend the most time with at school?" he asks.

Wendy frowns. "I guess… Kyle," she replies slowly. "But only because you were always tormenting him."

"I wouldn't elect to spend so much time with him if he were stupid," Cartman points out, flagging down the waitress. She scowls at them and wanders over, flipping her notebook over one page. "Can I get two double-cheeseburgers and a large fries?" he asks, mid-way through their conversation. "What do you want?"

"Just a veggie burger," she says absently, not tearing her eyes from Cartman. "So you're telling me that you tormented him because you liked him…?"

"Not liked him, so much," Cartman shrugs. "I guess… I tormented him because he interested me. Stan never interested me, and neither did Kenny."

Wendy stifles a giggle.

"Any drinks?" the waitress asks, her voice flat and monotonous.

"Diet coke," Wendy answers.

"Make that two."

The waitress rolls her eyes and walks away, leaving Wendy to admire Cartman's boldness once more. "So… you're telling me that Kyle interests you. Because he's smart."

"Other things too, I guess. He's an easy target," Cartman points out with a shit-eating grin.

"Because he's Jewish?"

Cartman laughs out loud. "No. Because he's got a temper the size of a pea. It hardly takes anything to make the boy implode," Cartman pauses. "Oh, come on. As if you didn't know that already."

Wendy giggles. "I just thought you hated Jews."

Cartman waves the idea away. "I don't give a shit about Jews. I'm not anti-semitic, not really. I just loved the way his face would contort whenever I said or did something unspeakable to the Jewish faith. It was my greatest pleasure in life."

Wendy's eyes widen. "You're an honest-to-God actual _sociopath_," she shudders, pushing her water away from her as if it suddenly repulses her. "You're messed up."

Cartman shrugs. "I don't know about that. I mean, sociopaths are born that way, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I was definitely made this way, so I can't be a sociopath."

Wendy scoffs. "You are _not_ going there," she shakes her head. "You aren't."

"Where?"

"You're not going to claim that your traumatic childhood made you such a fucked-up little terror. That's so cliché!" Wendy protests with a grin. "Come on, I'd have thought you would have _hated_ that." She pauses, before putting on a voice. "Ooh, woe is me, my dad was my mum and my mum was a crack-whore – better go kill some dudes parents and feed them to him!"

Cartman snorts. "You _remember_ the Scott Tenorman thing?"

"How could I have forgotten!?" she says, her mouth agape. "Jesus."

"Yeah, well," Cartman smiles a little sneakily. "People tend to forget about things a lot, here. Like when people send other people into the sun. Everyone conveniently forgot about that little trick, didn't they? I always wondered how you managed that…"

"Because I _stopped there_." She pauses meaningfully, sending him a stern look. "Whereas _you_ didn't. You built an entire personality based on those screwed-up little games you played with people," she laughs. "You even had them all tricked into thinking you were weaker than you really were, so that you could surprise them all when it turned out that, oh no, you were actually as bad as they thought all along." Wendy sighs. "I mean, kudos, I guess. But didn't it ever get old?"

Cartman nods. "It _did_ get old," he explains. "That's why I don't do that anymore."

"So… you're seriously telling me you've mellowed?"

"Yeah," he nods. "I've scaled back my full-blown sociopathy… now I just practice casual narcissism. Maybe BPD on the weekends."

Wendy can't help but laugh despite the strange turn of the conversation. "Whatever. You never really answered my question," she continues. "You want to hang out with me because I'm smart? Is that because you want to torment me? Or just hang out?"

Cartman ponders this for a while before replying. "I think it's both, maybe."

"Well, please choose the latter. I actually _like_ this Cartman…" Wendy tells him matter-of-factly.

He stops in his tracks and his words seem to come out from under him. "You… you like me?"

"Yeah," Wendy frowns, as if he's being stupid. "We're friends."

Why did that hurt so much? He's such a gullible idiot, sometimes.

"Alright," he shrugs, channelling his inner Kenny again. "Whatever."

Wendy shakes her head, just as the waitress rounds the corner, holding two trays of food. She eyes the two of them up suspiciously, as if they look out of place somehow, and then drops their trays unceremoniously down on the table. "Enjoy," she says with contempt, meaning the exact opposite.

"Thanks," Wendy mutters as the waitress saunters in the opposite direction, glaring after her. "Surly bitch…" she says under her breath, which makes Cartman snort with amusement.

"She's probably wondering what we're doing together. Y'know, why is a hottie like you taking pity on a fatass like me…?" he points out, chewing intensely on one of his fries, before reaching for the next one. "She's an ignorant cow."

Wendy shrugs. "If you're so bothered about being overweight, then why don't you eat healthier?" she asks, knowing as soon as she says the words that they are falling on deaf ears.

Cartman scowls. "Who said I'm bothered about being fat?"

Wendy raises her hands up, defensively. "Nobody. I just… never mind." She hesitates, reaching for her burger and tentatively picking out a slice of yellow-looking cheese. "Hmm…"

Carman spies the cheese, groaning at her. "Don't tell me you're a _vegan_ now?" he massages the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Jesus, just when I thought you were actually okay…"

She snorts. "No. Just not a fan of plastic crap."

"Oh," he replies thoughtfully. "Well, mind if I take it?"

Wendy rolls her eyes. "Be my guest." She pauses, watching him slowly devour a whole Kraft single, dry. When he swallows, she wrinkles up her nose. "Gross," she says slowly, but doesn't linger on the thought for too long. "So… uh. Why don't you tell me about your job?"

Cartman fiddles with the wrapper on his tray. "It's… fine. I like screwing people over. It's what I'm good at."

"You're a spin doctor, right?" she munches on her burger, inquisitive.

"Yeah."

"So why don't you spin-doctor yourself? Instead of saying that you like screwing people over… why not instead say that you're a persuasive and charismatic person? Or… that you use creative tactics to sell ideas."

Cartman screws up his features. "I may act fake for a living, but I hate that slimy garbage in real life."

Wendy shrugs. "Fair enough, I guess." She pauses. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine," he cuts her off, sharply. "I just hate my job."

Wendy's mind flitters to a brief conversation that she'd had with Stan and Kyle back in the bar, and she smiles. "Seems like there's a lot of that going around, recently."

"Who _likes_ working?" he growls. "You spend the majority of your life sucking up to people who don't give a shit about you, for minimal pay. How does that make sense?"

Wendy barks a laugh. "You're beginning to sound like a communist."

"Nope, just a failed capitalist," he retorts, only a little wounded that Wendy would accuse him of being the 'c' word.

"Oh, come _off_ it," she rolls her eyes. "You've hardly failed. You're only twenty-three, aren't you?"

"Twenty-four," he corrects her. "And Steve Jobs was a millionaire at twenty-five."

Wendy pauses. "You're not motivated by money, though, are you?"

"Money makes the world go round," he replies, a little sardonically, placing his drink cup down on the table. "Everyone is motivated by money. Money can do anything. Anything. Money can make an ugly guy hot to any woman. Money can buy friends, fame, success."

Wendy wrinkles up her nose. "What a boring way to live."

"Yeah, exactly," Cartman agrees rapidly, surprising her. "Money can do everything. Which is why having money is so overrated. Isn't it more rewarding to achieve those things for yourself?"

Wendy nods, suddenly intrigued. "I know what you mean."

"So, what I should really be saying is… Steve Jobs owned a successful, publicly-traded company at twenty-five. He was an expert in his field and well on his way to becoming well-known in the tech industry."

Wendy nods. "And you're…"

"I'm just a sad sack doing PR," Cartman muses. "It's depressing."

"It could be worse," Wendy suggests, her eyes tearing away from his a little awkwardly. "At least you do make _some_ money."

Cartman shrugs. "I guess I could be Stan, or Kenny. Those losers have absolutely nothing-"

"_Don't_." Wendy cuts him off with a stern tone of voice. "Cartman, I don't want to hear it."

He growls under his breath. "Why not?"

"I _like_ Stan and Kenny. If you're just going to sit here and bitch about them, then I think I'll probably just leave," Wendy says with a huff, grabbing her wallet and standing up to leave.

She's almost exiting the booth when Cartman gives. "Fine, fine. I'm sorry," he mutters, grinding his teeth in annoyance. "You don't have to leave."

She smiles, placated as she sits once again. "Thank you," she pauses.

There's a heavy pause.

"So, I told you about my job," Cartman tries to start up another line of conversation. "Tell me about yours."

Wendy smiles widely, caught off guard by how casually he's engaging her in conversation. The Cartman she knew from when she was young would never have shown such an open and earnest interest in somebody else's life.

Perhaps he really had grown up.

* * *

When he wakes up, his first thought is that it feels like a raccoon shit in his eye sockets last night.

And if that thought hadn't been disquieting enough, he then looks around and realises that he's currently having this very unpleasant hangover in an unfamiliar bed.

In many regards, it's a pretty regular Saturday morning for Stan. He was twenty-four, it wasn't like this was first time he's woken up at a stranger's place.

Except… it _wasn't_ a stranger, it was _Kyle_. And they hadn't had sex, they'd just… they'd just kissed. And then slept in the same bed, which as far as Stan is concerned, isn't so different from the sleepovers they'd had when they were younger.

_He's in Kyle's bed…_

The thought sends a sudden thrill through him, which is just as rapidly replaced by the familiar and tethering feeling of panic and regret settling in.

"_Fuck_," he groans, partly in mortification from the previous night and partly out of physical pain. His head hurts. His eyelids are heavy. His mind is blurry.

Well, that wasn't quite true. The memory of the night before might possibly be burned into his actual skull, and besides. He had been reminded of it the second that he had woken up; attacked by the pleasant sensation of Kyle's smell in the sheets.

_Was that creepy?_ Stan wondered. He ponders his situation as he scans the room.

No sign of intelligent life. Stan takes stock of his situation - had Kyle fallen asleep next to him or slept somewhere else? That part he's still struggling to remember.

He remembers the kiss at the bar, after Kyle had all but commanded him to do it.

He remembers hailing a quick taxi back here, and then kissing some more in the bed. Hot, sweaty, _intimate_ kissing.

He remembers, against his wishes, telling Kyle something between kisses. A confession. Murmured between fistfuls of his hair and between rumpled sheets.

Stan taps on his forehead in frustration, trying desperately to recall what he'd said. Those familiar nerves flutter in his chest as he worries that it was something unforgivable; something terrible. Something true.

Then his hand flies to his head in exasperation. "Fuck!" he says aloud, to nobody in particular.

One semi-lucid part of him convinces the rest of his hungover, useless self to drag himself out of bed so he can figure out what time it is, where the hell Kyle has gotten himself to and whether he should haul his own ass back to South Park, stat.

A quick glance at his phone - which he assumes Kyle has politely left charging - reveals that he's actually managed to sleep in until the ripe of time 11:28.

He sighs and throws the phone back onto the bed.

Well, that explains Kyle's absence, then. The boy had been an early riser in his teens, and old habits tended to die hard.

Stan scratches his greasy, long hair and stretches his arms above his head, catching a glance of himself in the long, tan mirror standing up against the window.

The discovery that he's wearing boxers is, in fact, a huge relief.

Not too shabby, he thinks, assessing himself. Still not like his quarterback days, not even close. But less… puffy looking than he was last week, at any rate.

He rakes a hand through his dirty head of hair and rolls out of finds a t-shirt to shove on, bemoaning that all of Kyle's shirts are just a little tight on him. Eventually, he manages to find a green Harvard hoodie which is several sizes too big and throws it on. He remains in his ratty grey boxers, mostly because he has no idea where the heck his jeans have gotten to.

Wandering downstairs, he spies a few tendrils of smoke appearing from behind the glass panel windows past the kitchen. Scratching his head, he realises that someone must be outside – if he remembers from the previous night, those panels led to the teeny tiny back garden.

The culprit is, of course, Kyle.

"Hey," he calls. Kyle doesn't appear to hear – or, at the very least, doesn't respond.

Stan pulls open the glass window, shivering with the sudden cold breeze on his bare legs. He locates his lost friend with a cigarette dangling in his mouth, one hand holding up a phone which is glued to his ear, and the other hand shoved in his pants pocket.

Kyle spots him and mouths a 'one second' gesture to Stan, and then continues to intently listen to the other end of the receiver. "Mm. Yeah. Mm-hm. Yep." He nods, despite not being seen by whoever he's talking to. "Yeah." There's a pause. "No, I did. That's done. Move it to next week, okay? It's not a priority. No worries," Kyle glances up apologetically at Stan and rolls his eyes, pointing at his phone in exasperation. "Look, I'm so sorry- I've _really_ got to go. I promise, it's all done… yeah… yeah. Okay, sure. If you have any questions just send me an e-mail and I'll get back to you by… by tomorrow morning at nine, yeah? And call me if you need to," Kyle sighs. "Okay. Thanks, Beth. See you tomorrow."

Stan holds his breath and Kyle ends the call with a decisive click.

"What was that?" Stan asks idly.

Kyle glances to his phone, looking a little skittish. "My boss," Kyle says absently, blowing smoke out his nose as Stan's mind flickers to Mole. "Want one?"

"Sure," Stan nods, and Kyle places a cigarette in his mouth, lighting him up. He takes a drag and then breathes out, nodding to Kyle's phone. "Why is she working on a Saturday?"

Kyle blinks as if it's a stupid question. "I usually work Saturdays."

"So why aren't you at work?"

"I _was_," Kyle informs him, his eyebrows furrowing even deeper. "I finished early, so I left," he says matter-of-factly, signalling to the grey suit he's still wearing. It's still pretty intact, although his tie has been taken off and shoved into a nearby pocket.

Stan has to admit, Kyle's always looked pretty good in a suit.

"Oh, right." Stan coughs, a little sheepish. "Guess I was sleeping… weren't you hungover? I mean, I don't think we got much sleep…"

"Yeah," Kyle yawns as if to agree. "It wasn't a particularly productive morning. I was lucky I didn't have much to do." He sends a cursory glance over at Stan. "Did you _only_ just wake up?"

"Yeah," Stan shrugs, suddenly too tired to feel ashamed "Look, uh. About last night…."

Kyle looks away and the atmosphere between them becomes twenty times more awkward. Stan waits for him to speak but Kyle doesn't say anything, the silence deafening the both of them.

"About what happened…?" Stan clarifies, waiting for Kyle to bite.

"What about it?" Kyle asks tonelessly, throwing his cigarette butt into a hedge with an uncaring toss.

"Uh," Stan stutters, suddenly thrown off course by this strange mood of Kyle's. "So… you don't have anything to say?"

"No," Kyle sighs. He checks his phone for the time. "It's late…"

There's an awkward silence as Stan realises that he's going to have to force Kyle to talk to him about this. He likens this kind of experience to plucking ones nose hairs - unpleasant, time-consuming, but ultimately necessary. He winces, readying himself for the difficulty that faces ahead. "I'm not going to drop it, dude," he pauses. "Would you like me to pretend this never happened…?"

"No," Kyle presses two fingers against his forehead, tiredly. "I just don't want to pretend that it's something it's not, okay? We were both drunk. You're gay and I just… things have been _weird_ with Lauren, lately. It's nothing. It's not a big deal."

Stan flinches visibly, wondering why that hurts so much to hear. It's not like he didn't already know that was the case, or expect exactly that answer. But still… hearing it straight from the horse's mouth, and in that deadpan voice… it's like a kebab skewer to the lower organs.

"O-ok, then." Stan nods. "I guess… that's that." He scratches his head and makes a face. "I'm sorry if I made it… weird, between us."

"It's _not_ weird." Kyle snaps, his façade of uncaringness dissipating in a sudden burst of angry steam. "That's what's so fucking _weird_ about it!"

Stan breathes a sigh of relief – he doesn't like angry Kyle at the best of times, but he'll take angry Kyle over dead, emotionless Kyle any day of the week. He can't help but raise a victorious brow. "It _was_ bothering you! I knew it," he says, a little triumphant.

"We've been friends for twenty years, Stan! _Twenty_! Why the fuck would something like this happen now? How the hell am I supposed to just be cool with this?!" he moans, and Stan gets the distinct impression that he's been holding on to this particular bout of angst all morning.

Stan wrinkles his nose, wondering how best to respond. He decides to take a page out of Kyle's book, and use logic. "Firstly, we weren't even talking for most of those years." He takes a breath. "And secondly- it's only weird if _we_ decide it's weird. It's nobody else's business."

Kyle snorts derisively. "Uh, _firstly_, spare me your pedantry. At least fifteen years!" he says flippantly. "And _secondly_, are you really proposing a 'don't ask don't tell' deal?" he asks incredulously. "Because _that_ worked so well in high school, didn't it?" he finishes miserably

Stan gets the feeling that Kyle's talking more to himself than to Stan.

Stan just smiles, placing a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "You make some _excellent_ points. You should have been a lawyer."

Despite the context, Kyle finds the hand to be a relaxing presence. He sighs, welcoming the sudden change of subject. "My talents are pretty wasted in the corporate sphere," he agrees. "Although I'm not sure I'm ready to sell my soul yet."

Stan grins, relieved that he's managed to tame the beast. "Don't worry, you'd have been one of those hippy-dippy lawyers who protects environmental legislation or sues factory-farms or some crap like that."

"You'd have liked that, wouldn't you?" Kyle muses. "God, Wendy really is the perfect woman for you. If only she weren't a woman."

"…I'd rather just be _straight_, actually." Stan takes his hand from Kyle's shoulder, quieter suddenly. Kyle's mouth opens and then closes as he realises that he doesn't really know what to say to that, but Stan scoffs. "Oh, come on. I'd be lot better off."

"Really?"

"It's _true_. I probably wouldn't have been so depressed at school, at least. Cartman would have had nothing to bother me about, so that's a win," he points out. "I wouldn't have been kicked off the football team, so I might have got a really good scholarship somewhere. I'd still be talking to most of my family, and maybe I'd have some friends in South Park other than Kenny and Craig," he sighs. Kyle opens his mouth to object, but Stan gets in first. "Maybe my dad would be alive," he concludes.

"Stan, don't…"

"I'm serious, dude. Maybe having a gay son drove him to drink."

"No, alcoholism did that," Kyle interjects, suddenly in a stern voice. "You can't possibly blame yourself for your dad being an idiot."

Stan shrugs in a distant fashion. "I miss him, sometimes," he says quietly. "He was stupid, and a pain in the ass, and a dick. But he… he did care about me. In a fucked-up way. And he… he tried to do the right thing, even if he sucked at it."

Kyle doesn't have a response, staying silent as Stan wallows in his thoughts for a good few seconds and then he decides to revert back to the previous subject. "Well, look at it this way. If you weren't gay then we wouldn't have… well, we last night wouldn't have happened," he starts.

Stan's reverie vanishes and turns into mirth. "Oh, and what a loss for _that_ would be," he snarks back.

Kyle rolls his eyes. "Am I not a good kisser?"

"You are," Stan grumbles, annoyed at having to admit that kissing in one of Kyle's many talents. "Irritatingly so."

Kyle doesn't ask any more questions after this, seemingly satisfied with where they ended up. Stan stretches his arms above his head and Kyle finally spots the hoodie.

"Wearing my clothes, I see."

Stan flashes him a smile. "I'm cosplaying as someone who made good choices in life," he chuckles.

Kyle snorts. "Harvard isn't everything."

"It's better than working the phones at a broadband company, I know that much," Stan rolls his eyes. "And it worked out alright for you, didn't it?"

Kyle makes a face and lightly grabs the fabric at the front, pulling Stan towards him. "Looks better on you," he mutters, and presses his lips briefly against Stan's. The gesture is fleeting, domestic and pleasantly warming amidst the bitter winter air.

Stan shrugs after Kyle lets go of his sweater, his mouth twisting into a smile. "Well, I got cold. And I don't know where my clothes got to…"

Kyle sighs and lights another cigarette. "They're in the wash. You spilled wine on them. And that's a bitch to get out if you don't deal with it straight away."

"So grown-up, aren't you…"

"Stan, I spill wine on my clothes often enough that I know the correct procedure for getting it out. Does that scream '_responsible adult'_ to you?" he chuckles. "Anyway. If you're cold, get inside. Your legs are all naked and bare."

"Oh, uh…" Stan nods. "Sure…"

Kyle flicks the remaining half of his cigarette away and gestures towards the kitchen. "C'mon, I'll get your jeans out of the dryer. Then we can grab lunch, or something?"

Stan nods. "Sure," he says again, happier. He follows Kyle inside to his tiny kitchenette – consisting of about four floor tiles of space, one oven, one microwave and about two spare counters. It's… compact, to say the least.

Kyle notices Stan noticing it. "Not the most spacious, is it?" he calls, leaning down to grab Stan's jeans from the dryer. "It's the cheapest downstairs apartment I could find in the city. Without getting into real… _crack-den_ territory."

Stan snorts. "You should see mine and Kenny's place. It sits pretty comfortably in crack-den territory."

Kyle passes Stan his jeans. "It can't be that bad," he muses. "I mean, two incomes are better than one, right? And South Park isn't exactly the most top-end place to set up shop. Apart from that one time that all the celebrities moved in, that sucked…" he reminisces, remembering something vague about Token and some joke-telling lions.

Stan shrugs. "I made the deposit with the meagre savings my dad left me. And Kenny floats between jobs, so he's barely ever liquid enough to pay rent or bills."

Kyle makes a face. "Yikes. I'd kick him out."

"_C'mon_," Stan places a hand on his hip, raising a brow.

"I'm serious. Get a better tenant."

Stan grins. "Are you offering?"

"Well, no." Kyle rolls his eyes. "It would make more sense for you to live here."

There's a moment of silence where Kyle's sentence dangles in the air, like a proposition. Stan doesn't want to say anything; because he feels like if he does, Kyle will snatch it away again. Or tell him he was only joking, or otherwise ruin the moment. Kyle sends him a strange look. "Are you going to put your pants on, dude?" he checks his phone for the time again. "And then we can get lunch, without you getting arrested for public indecency."

"I'm not that hungry, honestly." Stan admits, shrugging.

There's another moment of silence. "Well, we've got the day, What do you want to do?"

Pause.

"Well, I am already in a state of undress?" Stan suggests, just enough of a hint of mirth that he could pretend to be joking, if Kyle said no.

Kyle's mouth turns up in amusement. In an instant, he takes a step towards Stan, so their faces are less than inches apart. With their noses almost touching, and Kyle's eyes fixated on Stan's lips, he smiles. "I would love to hear your ideas."

A giggle bubbles up from Stan's lungs. Clearing his throat, he grabs Kyle's tie and closes the gap between them once again.

Kissing him sends a heady rush through Stan. Drunk had been one thing, but fooling around sober? He's worried this can is about to spill worms all over the floor…

"Upstairs?" Kyle's head quirks towards the staircase, the words mumbled between peppered kisses, and in the time it takes them to stumble their way up the stairs, Kyle's managed to unbutton all the buttons on his shirt.

* * *

Chapter 13 hasn't been too unlucky for these characters... ;)


	14. a cold day in hell

Kenny sometimes wishes that Hell itself looked a little more like people imagined it did.

I mean, a few pits of burning sinners might actually brighten up the place a little. These days, Hell was more akin to a slight inconvenience – an irritating but ultimately tolerable way to spend eternity, as opposed to the full-blown perpetual torment you always saw represented in popular media.

Firstly, there was all the queueing. You die, your body shuffles off this mortal coil, gets plunged down to hell for eternity, you take a ticket, you wait in line.

Kenny's waited in line for three hours before, just to see how long it would take to get through. He only got a quarter of the way before he gave up, choosing to go and find Damien to let him in. It was the repetitive music that had tipped him over the edge, if he remembers correctly.

You see, Kenny didn't _have_ to wait in line to get into Hell. Kenny had the privilege of a special 'all-access' pass, something only available to those who were immortal, and therefore died regularly.

Which is a club of one, as far as Kenny is aware.

Take right now, for example. He's just died, as far as he knows, and he wakes up at the back of one of thousands of extremely long queues – each one so long and winding that he can't see the gates of hell at _all_ – and he immediately makes a beeline for the front of it.

"Hey! Quit pushing in line!" some lady shouts at him, shaking her fist. "Wait your turn!"

He shoots her a look as he passes, not stopping in his tracks. "Can it, lady, I'm immortal."

She didn't respond. That line usually tended to silence people. After suffering mostly untimely and gruesome deaths, many people weren't at their most confrontational, for obvious reasons. A lot of them were sobbing, some pleading, and others were begging to know why they weren't granted access into Heaven.

Kenny doesn't get it. Hell is fine, really. Hell is better than most people's lives on Earth were, at least in 2020.

Hell did not, however, contain any red demons wielding pitchforks. Hell did not contain medieval torture racks that looked straight out of the Spanish inquisition. And contrary to popular opinion, Hell did not have very much fire.

Hell did have a McDonald's, and bad video games, and stuffy shopping malls. Hell had crowded beaches, crappy condos, and ugly buildings.

Truth be told, it looked like some unholy combination between an abandoned quarry, a desert, and modern-day Atlantic City.

He doesn't experience this part of Hell much, though, due to his rather _unusual_ personal circumstances.

He saunters up to the gates, finally approaching the front of this queue. There, he spies a red, fanged creature standing at a desk and letting people through the gates, one by one. His name-badge reads 'Gary' in tiny print, and the bags under his eyes indicate that he's extremely bored of his job as he performs his daily administrative duties. "Helena Zaltzman," he reads out in a flat monotone, addressing a woman at the very front who looks like she might faint any moment. She tentatively steps up to his desk and awaits her fate. "You died in a car accident, is that right?" he reads from the tablet in front of him.

The trembling lady nods fearfully.

"Do you have any family members here?" the demon asks exhaustedly.

The woman shakes her head. "I… I was all by m-myself…" she stutters, her eyes springing fresh tears to the surface.

"Got it," Gary nods. "Welcome to Hell, where you will spend the rest of step through the gate, and rejoin line..." he scrutinises the screen in front of him closely. "...seventeen. I hope you have a uncomfortable and anxiety-inducing eternity," he reams off, as if reading from a script.

"Oh, God..." the woman replies, looking very much like she might be on the verge of a breakdown.

"Hey!" Kenny hollers suddenly, causing both the trembling lady and the bored demon to look up in unison. He approaches the lady with what he hopes is a comforting smile. "Listen, don't worry… what was your name?" he asks.

"H-helena," she answers tearfully, biting her lip. "Who are you?"

"I'm Kenny," he sticks out a hand to shake, which she does so a little tentatively. "Nice to meetcha," he grins. "Look, don't worry about this place. I know it seems a little daunting, but trust me. You'll see your family again. Don't let _this_ guy put you off," he jerks a thumb towards Gary. "It's not so bad here, trust me. I've been here a lot of times before!" he informs her cheerfully. "And I _always_ come back!"

"My… my family is going to _Hell_?" she suddenly wails, looking like she's going to start crying again. "How do you know?!"

Kenny sends Gary a look. "Uh, _yeah_. I mean, only staunch Mormons get into heaven, lady. Didn't anybody tell you that?"

"N-no…" she gasps. "You mean, all of it was a lie? My whole life? My _faith_…"

"Don't worry about it," Kenny places a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "Trust me, you'll learn to like it here. Satan's really mellowed out since he left Saddam Hussein."

Gary cuts in. "Look, I've got a big line. Please just take your ticket and join line seventeen through the gate."

Kenny smiles at her. "You're going to like it here, I'm sure. You have _got_ to try the flamin' hot Cheeto burger from Hell's kitchen!" he tells her excitedly. "If you do, tell Chef Ramsay that Kenny said hello!"

The lady stares at the two of them, totally baffled. In a daze, she takes a ticket from Gary and wanders through the gates, joining the line. She seems almost catatonic with shock, but she doesn't cry again. She joins the line she's been told to, her expression one of complete confusion as she turns to gaze back at Kenny.

Kenny gives her a friendly wave, and then turns back to Gary, levelling him. "_Wow_, man," he shakes his head at the demon. "Your customer service skills are… lacking, to say the least."

Gary scowls. "Who the fuck are you, and why do you know so much about Hell?"

Kenny grins. "Listen, pal. You're new here, so why don't you just grab your manager and _then_ we can talk, okay? Is Karen working today? She's always liked me."

Gary sends Kenny a strange look, muttering something muffled into his walkie-talkie. He gives Kenny a disgusted once-over and licks his front teeth with his tongue. "Karen's in. She's coming over now. First, tell me… who are you?" he asks again, leaning back in his chair.

"I'm Kenny," Kenny replies simply. "McCormick. I'm sure we'll get to know each other. I'm here a lot. But man…" he turns his head, pointing to the large line of people outside Gary's gate. "You gotta be nicer to the crying ones, dude. Otherwise Satan's gonna stick you on clean-up duty. You don't want that, _trust_ me. Cleanup duty here is… well, not to put too fine a point on it man, but it's hellish. You can probably imagine the kinds of fluids you're going to be cleaning up…" Kenny finishes with a shudder.

"I'll bear that in mind..." Gary replies with a scowl.

"Hey, can you do me a favor?" Kenny asks suddenly, a thought popping into his head.

Gary blinks, taken-aback. "Sure," he answers, albeit a little hesitant.

"Can you tell me how I died? I just… I like to know. And I _never_ seem to remember…"

Gary nods and swallows, scrolling through a list on his tablet. "Uh... let's see… ah. Ketamine," Gary says anxiously, his eyes darting down to the screen in front of him. "Pretty good way to go, if you ask me."

Kenny nods and understanding fills his features. "Ah, that's _right_. I was partying with Bebe…" he pauses. "So I overdosed again. That's cool," he nods, appreciatively.

"No, you didn't," Gary corrects him with an amused smile creeping in. "You actually just choked on the tablet."

Kenny folds his arms across his chest and groans. "Aw, lame, man. Did I even get high before I died?"

"No, it was pretty immediate," Gary chuckles. "Still, not the worst way to die."

Kenny chuckles. "Trust me, I know. I have some doozies under my belt," he pauses, another thought occurring to him. "Actually, I need another favor, man. Could you tell me if a girl called... Bebe Anne Stevens came here with me? I... need to know if she's okay."

Gary scratches his head, typing something into his tablet and reading the results onscreen. "No, uh. Nobody by that name."

Kenny breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I think Wendy woulda literally _killed_ me," he grins. "Thanks for your help, Gary. And…" he pauses. "Look, man, I know it's tough, this gig. But it gets easier. The first couple of days are always gonna be hard. But you can't take it out on other people, man, that's just wrong."

Gary stares at him, still bemused. "I..." he starts, but then he spots something in the distance. "She's here," he mutters, glancing just to the left of Kenny.

"How's my favorite immortal?!" a friendly female voice suddenly comes up behind the two of them, grabbing Kenny by the waist and squeezing him tightly. "Gosh, it's been a while, hasn't it? Two, _three_ weeks?"

"About that," Kenny nods, beaming at the female demon. "It was a good run, for me."

"And what got you this time, hun?"

"Uh... overdose," he shrugs, sending Gary a meaningful '_shut your mouth_' look and coughing loudly. "K."

"Yikes, again?" Karen laughs. "Satan's not going to be too happy about that," she comments, grabbing him by the shoulder and bustling him away from the queue. "Come on, come on. Let's get you through these gates before people start to complain…" she smiles, opening up the gates for Kenny to step through, shooting a look back to Gary. "Get back to work, kid. You've got a big line."

"Thanks, Karen," he smiles gratefully. "Gary here is doing a really good job."

Karen crosses her arms over her chest and raises a brow, her glance darting between them. "Is that right?"

"Absolutely." Kenny nods with a grin. "He's a natural."

"Well... I'll let the boss know," she replies with a disbelieving quirk of the mouth. "Anyway, run along, Kenny. I've got fires to put out. You already know the way."

Kenny nods. "I do!" he replies, skipping through the gates and feeling a hot, humid wall of air hit him in the face. "Ah, there's that fresh Hell air," he breathes in heavily. "See ya later, Gary. I gotta go find Satan!"

"Bye," the demon mutters, staring after him, still baffled by what's just happened. His gaze lingering on Kenny for a while after he skips off through the land of torture and suffering. "Man," he mutters to himself, eyeing up his huge line with a sigh. "Freaking _Mondays_."

* * *

Stan's still catching his breath when he feels Kyle's head plop down on the pillow next to him. He waits for a few more laboured breaths, watching Kyle as he stares thoughtfully up at the ceiling, and then speaks.

"Dude…" he grins, still coming down from a huge high. "You are… way too good at that. For a straight guy."

Kyle bites his lip. He mumbles something into his arm, but Stan only catches the end. "…mistake," he mutters.

Stan frowns, still cocooned in his post-orgasmic bliss, and nestles himself into Kyle's shoulder. "Why?" he mumbles, hardly listening, birds singing in his mind.

"Because," Kyle sighs, frustrated. "I… I have a girlfriend, Stan. This is… _really_ bad."

There's a pause, before Stan straightens himself up. "Shit, yeah. I kind of… forgot about that. What are you gonna do?" he asks, tilting his head to the side. "Are you going to tell her?"

"I have to break up with her, obviously," Kyle replies, squinting his eyes shut. "Which will be a pain in the ass, no doubt. Girls tend not to like being broken up with, in my experience..." he rolls to the side and turns to face Stan.

Stan has to laugh. "I can't relate."

Kyle scratches his head. "Didn't you ever break up with Wendy?"

"No, it was always her."

The two of them take a second to appreciate the irony of that.

And then Stan speaks up. "So… this _was_ a mistake, was it?" he asks, flinchingly.

Kyle sighs. "_Last night_ it was just a mistake," he corrects. "Today it feels more like the beginning of a descent into some sort of quarter-life-crisis," he points out, blowing air out his nostrils.

Stan tries very hard to shield himself from flinching at that. "If it was so bad, why did you do it?"

Kyle groans. "I don't know. I… wanted to? I know that's stupid. I wanted to… break away – do something different. Like you were talking about last night, remember? Doing something that's the opposite to the rest of your life. Something refreshing. Something that makes me remember that I'm alive." He pauses, realising that he's getting a little carried away. "Why…" he starts softly. "Why did you do it?"

Stan sighs. "You want to know?"

"Yes."

"You can't _possibly_ understand," he bites his lip.

Kyle smiles wryly. "Try me?"

Stan glances at his conquest and grins. "I was just taking pity on you," he answers, his smile growing. "I knew how hard you've been working, recently, and thought I'd… y'know, do you a favor. Something to cheer you up."

Kyle snorts. "Hah!" he barks out, whipping the pillow from underneath his head and suddenly walloping Stan in the side of the waist with it.

Stan sniggers and shields himself. "Dude," he laughs. "I guess it didn't work!"

"You complacent fuck," Kyle groans as Stan snatches the pillow from his grasp and enacts his own pillow-based revenge on Kyle's head. "Stop! Ow!"

"Oh, come on. That can't actually hurt," Stan laughs out loud. "Isn't it like, Egyptian cotton or some shit?"

"Is it, actually," Kyle mumbles from underneath the pillow, pulling a feather out of his mouth in disgust.

Stan stares at him incredulously. "Jesus, you're so bourgeois. What _happened_?"

"I got a girlfriend!" Kyle protests, indignant. "They _like_ that shit!" he pauses and tosses the pillow to the floor. "There. Now it can't hurt anyone."

"My saviour," Stan giggles. "Clad in egyptian cotton," he pretends to swoon, his body falling back onto the – admittedly very comfortable – mattress.

"Shut up!" Kyle retorts. "What is on your bed, then?"

"I sleep on a _bale of hay_, because I'm just a lowly peon, not some member of the friggin' landed _gentry_…" he shoots Kyle an accusatory look.

"I'm serious!"

"Why the hell do you want to know?" Stan wonders, but the question is rhetorical. He waves his hand dismissively in the air. "I don't know, probably some polyester crap from Wal-Mart."

"So, am I to assume that you're pretty much only in this for the superior sleeping arrangements, then?" Kyle asks flippantly.

Stan rolls his eyes for what feels like the fourth time that conversation. "Yes," he answers sarcastically. "Because I relish spending huge amounts of money on gas money to drive to Denver every weekend just for Egyptian cotton sheets."

"I don't blame you…"

"Come off it. Polyester is fine," Stan says defensively. "Besides. I don't have a girlfriend to impress, do I?"

"Yeah, but surely your male conquests all complain about it?" Kyle asks, still half-joking. Stan falls silent. The mood suddenly falls a little heavy, and Kyle bites his lip. "Uh… sorry. Did I hit a nerve?"

Stan shakes his head. "I just don't… I haven't really slept around in a while. South Park is… well, it's not exactly full of hot gay guys, dude," he raises a brow. "That's an understatement, by the way. There is actually exactly _one_ hot gay guy."

Kyle seems surprised. "And who's that?"

Stan scowls, mock-angrily. "Hey! You're lookin' at him, obviously."

"Naturally."

There's a brief silence where both boys regard each other a little strangely. Kyle speaks up first, to ask a question. "How come you never-"

_Ring ring._

He's interrupted by the sound of his mobile phone ringing on the bedside cabinet.

"Ack, sorry," he mumbles, grabbing the phone before pressing the 'answer' button and slapping it against his ear. "Hey…" he says in hushed tones, into the receiver.

"Who is it?" Stan whispers, but Kyle just frowns presses a finger urgently against his lips, signalling that Stan should be silent.

"Yeah, I know. I'm so sorry, I've been just completely swamped…" Stan watches Kyle's hand rub again his neck, a sure-fire sign that the boy was lying. "I know, Lauren," he says, sending Stan a sharp look.

Stan's heart flutters in his chest, realising that Kyle's girlfriend is on the other end of the phone. Still, he cranes his neck forward to listen intently at the conversation. It sounds like she's angry, based on the shouting noises that are coming from the tinny speakers on Kyle's mobile.

"Look… I. It's not… it's not that I'm avoiding you. You should know that we're just totally busy with work right now, and…" he trails off, seemingly getting another angry earful from his aggrieved girlfriend. "Lauren. Stop. Please." He hesitates, his eyes scanning very quickly over Stan. "Listen. I want to see you Monday night. We have got to talk. I… I have some stuff that I want to say."

There's a long pause on the phone, and Stan's eyes widen.

"No… look, I... I don't want to talk about this over the phone. Can we just meet on Monday? Yeah. Come round. I know. Yeah… I think so," he bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut. "Okay, I'll see you then. And Lauren…? I'm… I'm really sorry about this weekend. I just…. I'm the worst. Okay. Okay, yeah, me too. Bye."

The phone clicks off.

Stan scratches his head. "Uh… trouble in paradise?"

Kyle grimaces. "She's mad because I was supposed to call her last night," he squeezes the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, as if he's got a headache brewing. "Look, Stan. I can't deal with all this right now. I'm sorry, I know this is all my fault. But… things with Lauren, like I said… it's complicated."

"You're cheating on her, that's not complicated."

Kyle blinks, a little taken aback. "Yeah, but…"

"You said you were going to talk with her. Are you going to break it off?" he asks, figuring that direct is the only real option here. Besides, he's a little tired of Kyle being vague about what's going on. "Tell me, dude."

"W-well, I don't know…"

Stan groans and sits up. "For fuck's sake. How can you not know?" he asks, incredulous. "You obviously don't love the girl. You're sleeping with someone else!" he exclaims, throwing his arms up in the air in sudden anger.

"We didn't sleep together-"

"Oh, come on, quit being pedantic. Mouth stuff is _basically_ sex," Stan grumbles, standing up and beginning to re-dress himself in a rather aggressive manner. "I'm leaving."

"That's probably a good idea," Kyle replies, a little exhausted.

Stan pauses, now standing only in his jeans and places his hands on his hips. "You aren't going to stop me?"

"_No_, dude. I think you should go. I said this was a mistake, and I meant it," Kyle growls, irritated at the situation, at himself, at Stan, at Lauren. "I need some time to figure everything out. You should… you should probably do the same."

Stan plucks his t-shirt from the floor, shaking his head. "I don't need to figure anything out."

"Fine, if you say so," Kyle sighs, exasperated. "Look, for what it's worth… I'm sorry. This was my fault. I have to fix this."

"Yeah," Stan replies, agreeing hotly. "You do." he pulls the t-shirt aggressively over his head and works on locating his socks, scooping them up into his hands and heading to the door. He can put them on later, he figures. Right now, he just wants to get out of this room. Suddenly, he's suffocating. Suddenly, it feels like there's three people here - Stan, Kyle, and his girlfriend.

"W-wait, Stan!" Kyle calls after him, leaping up and following him down the stairs as he angrily stomps away.

"Figure out what you want and quit screwing everybody around, dude!" he calls, not even bothering to take a look back.

Kyle groans and follows Stan all the way to the door, where he starts to put on his socks and shoes. "Dude, come on. It takes two to tango."

Stan pauses, his left sock half-on, and gives Kyle a filthy look. "You're blaming this on me?"

"No, but... I mean, c'mon..." he tries to clarify, struggling to get his point across. "I didn't mean to upset you," he says, his voice a little quieter. "I really... I don't want to lose contact with you again, man. I'm sorry, I never should've done this..." he curses to himself, rubbing his forehead in annoyance.

Something about the strain in his voice makes Stan take pity and he caves. "Kyle, it's fine. I just think you should sort things out with your girlfriend. Like... end it. Or... or don't, whatever, man." he pauses. "I'm not going to lose contact with you, idiot. I think I just need some space, today."

Kyle bites his lip. "Okay, man."

Stan grabs his jacket from the peg on the door and stands up to face Kyle, with his shoes on. "I'll... I'll text you?" he offers tentatively.

"Sounds good," Kyle replies, his voice tired and low. "Bye, dude."

There's a brief moment where the boys both wonder if they're going to hug goodbye, or even kiss - but it doesn't happen. The energy isn't right, or something. Stan finds himself offering up an awkward little semi-wave before he opens up the front door and steps out to face the cold Denver winter air. He hears the gentle click of the door shut behind him, and shoves his hand in his pockets.

Grabbing his phone, he dials Kenny's number. It rings out, and he stares at his phone a little defeated, as if it's somehow let him down.

"Shit," he says to himself, a little annoyed. "_Ken_..."

For a second, he really does consider calling a cab and getting the hell out of Denver. He really does.

_But then again..._

He groans at his own lack of resolve and finds himself turning back on his heel.

Stan reaches one cold hand up to the wooden door and knocks three times. Before he's even finished his third knock, the door is open and Kyle stands on the other side, a little expectantly.

There's a silence as they regard each other again.

"Nowhere to go?" Kyle ventures, his face looking a little bemused.

"Nope," Stan shrugs, sheepishly.

Kyle sighs and stands aside to let Stan back in. "Come in and wait here while I get dressed," he regards Stan coolly. "I'll take you to lunch, it's the least I can do."

Stan finds himself stepping back into Kyle's apartment, a grateful smile spreading across his features as his stomach growls at him in hunger.

* * *

Bebe's not sure what to do, not at first. It's not the first time she's had to deal with dead people - she worked as a carer at a nursing home for many years - but it's certainly the first time this particular situation has occurred in her life, anyway.

His dead body is still just sitting there, on her couch. She doesn't want to go out and look at it, but at the same time - she's kind of interested. It's shocking for a couple of minutes, watching somebody choke to death in front of you. She kind of chastises herself that she didn't know how to stop it - vowing to herself that she should definitely learn how to perform the heimlich maneuvre, the next time her and Kenny hung out.

But then, it got a little old. She kind of wants to _use_ her living room, but she also doesn't want to just sit there next to a dead body. She screws up her face, and with her phone, googles how long it takes Rigor Mortis to set in.

Three to four hours, it says.

She sighs, and then goes to make herself a cup of green tea. Green tea seemed like the appropriate thing to do - and it's not like she was really in the mood to take recreational drugs after witnessing something that was supposedly traumatising.

She says supposedly, because death was infinitely less traumatising when you knew the person in question was going to come back to life in twelve hours or so.

Well, sometimes it was longer. There had been times, when they were younger, than Kenny had taken months to come back. Months where the boys had begun to completely mourn him, as if he really were dead and not some strange approximation of it.

But he _always_ came back. It never changed.

She eyes up his corpse and hopes that it's soon.

There's something about a dead body that was so uncanny. It was like, everything that made Kenny Kenny was sitting right in front of her - and yet, it just wasn't. His spirit wasn't there. It looked just like in every possible way and somehow, nothing like him.

That crooked smile of his.

Those smiling eyes.

The way he always hunched over.

The way he always spoke through his lips, so quiet and mumbled. Like he didn't ever really want to be heard.

Bebe sighs, and checks her watch. Only an hour has passed, so Rigor shouldn't have set in, yet.

"Oh, Kenny," she blinks up at him. "You are something else, you know that?"

She knows she's talking to a dead person, but part of her expects him just to turn that shaggy blonde head, shoot her a shit-eating grin, and say 'you know it, babe' in his familiar mumble.

She's not sure what it is about him that she likes so much. Probably his carefree attitude, it could be that. It was pretty hard to give a shit about life when death wasn't an option, so it made sense that Kenny was the way he was. He didn't care about having a steady income because starving to death was no big deal. He didn't care about taking drugs because he could just come back from an overdose with a new body, one that wasn't physically addicted to any substances. He didn't need relationships, didn't need anything.

He wasn't tied to his death, and so he wasn't tied to his life.

That was a very attractive trait in a man, she thinks, sipping at her tea and sighing heavily.

She wonders if she has feelings for him, sometimes. It's possible, certainly. If you sleep with someone regularly for long enough you're bound to develop some feelings for them - it was just natural psychology, surely? At the same time... she knows deep down that somebody like Kenny could never be forever. He was just as fleeting as his own lifespans, after all.

She hadn't meant to sleep with him this weekend, either. It had just sort of happened. She'd been on her period, or she was supposed to have been, anyway - which she'd been glad about, because it meant that she couldn't have any more ill-advised Kenny sex.

But then when she hadn't come on, she'd just kind of thought 'fuck it' and slept with him anyway.

Bebe frowns as this thought seems to sink in. "Wait a second..."

Her brain races to catch up with itself as she realises that she still hasn't had her period. She'd been so caught up in messing around with Kenny and the others this weekend that the thought had almost completely passed her by.

She pulls her phone out of her pocket and checks her calendar, triple-checks to make sure.

It's right there, written in for last week. She should have had her period on Wednesday.

It was Sunday today.

Her brows furrow even deeper and she lets her heartbeat increase in her chest, feeling it thud. "No..." she whispers quietly to herself. "No, it must just be late..."

It was only four days.

Four days, but still.

She whips out her phone and calls Wendy, the only person she can think of who is in Denver right now who might help her out.

It rings five times before Wendy picks up, sounding a little tired. "Hi, Bebe..."

"Wendy, hey," she starts, her voiced strained and rushed. She's panicking, and she's never been very good at hiding her emotions.

Wendy notices right away. "Bebe, honey, what's going on?"

"It's probably nothing. I just... I just missed my period, that's all," she explains.

"How many days are you late?"

"Four," she answers, biting her lip.

There's a small pause. "Are you usually late?" she asks, after a few seconds.

Bebe squeezes her eyes shut, because Wendy's asked the question that she didn't want to answer. "Never."

"Okay. You're at your granddad's place, right? I'll drive straight round now, we'll go to a pharmacy. Listen, Bebe... don't worry. It's going to be fine, okay?"

"O-okay..." she replies in a stammer, her mind suddenly whirling. "Thanks. I'll... I'll see you in a minute."

She clicks off the phone and her head suddenly rushes, making her feel dizzy. How could she be so _stupid_? How could she not _realise_? In horror, she turns to stare at Kenny's lifeless body on the couch and suddenly, it all seems to hit her at once. She sits down - almost a falling motion - her head collapsing into her hands as her mind races to think about all the times they'd slept together.

_Had a condom really broken?_

_Had they forgotten to use one?_

_Had it somehow failed?_

She stays hunched over, her fizzy blonde hair cascading down onto her knees as her palms drill into her eye sockets, and hopes that Wendy shows up soon.


	15. a day in the life

**I'm not dead, just really unmotivated!**

* * *

Five-thirty, he wakes up. Jump in the shower, brushing his teeth while he's in there.

Five-forty, he steps out, scrunches a dry towel against his red curls for a few seconds and then peers at his reflection.

Tired, that's what his reflection tells him.

He sighs and tells it to fuck off.

Six o'clock, he slings his bag over his jacket and heads out of the door. As he mounts his bike, he realises that he's forgotten to have breakfast.

He smokes his first cigarette of the day as he pedals, disregarding the vague dangers of cycling one-handed along busy Denver traffic.

Six-fifteen, he's in the door.

First in, he sighs to himself. As usual.

"Morning, Kyle!"

The chipper voice makes his lip curl into a snarl, but he smothers it. "Morning, Judy."

Okay, not first today.

"How come you're here so early?" she asks. She _always_ asks.

He clears his throat and turns to face her. Judy – one of the older junior analysts, she sat in the bullpen with all the younger members of staff. Kyle seemed to always forget about her; she came in early so that she could leave early to pick her kids up after school.

Probably the reason she hasn't progressed, he thinks sourly.

"I'm still going through the Cambridge files," he explains, forcing his expression into anything but pure misery. "The legal mess," he clarifies with a grimace.

She just smiles vacantly. "Well, don't work yourself too hard!" she says with some rather unearned cheeriness.

Kyle shrugs. Spying his shared office, his stomach sinks. It always did, when he spied the place that he was going to be stuck for at least the next eleven hours.

_Don't work too hard,_ she said.

He laughs.

That ship left the dock years ago. That ship had left the dock, sailed halfway across the world, hit an iceberg and sunk.

Then, he settles into his chair and boots up his computer.

"Fri-yay," he sighs to himself, the Apple logo burning into his skull. "Fuck."

Jack waltzes in at around eight, takes one look at Kyle and recoils in horror.

"Jesus, Kyle, do you need an exorcism!?" he asks. "What _happened_ to you?"

Kyle frowns. "What are you talking about?"

"You look shit tired," he comments dryly, plonking his bag down on the desk opposite Kyle's with a cheeky smirk. "You should really get more sleep. Or, y'know," he sends his coworker a cheeky grin. "Start moisturizing, or something. It's not fair that I should have to stare at your sad excuse for a face all day long. It's depressing."

Kyle snorts. "Shut the fuck up and check your emails. I sent you a bunch of stuff I need you to cross-reference."

At least he shuts up.

At 2pm, he has lunch, which happens to comprise of a cigarette, a coffee, and a tin of Kraft mac 'n' cheese.

At 4pm, his boss calls him up and gives him another load of work to complete for the weekend.

At 5pm, Jack finishes for the day. As he packs up his things, he sends Kyle a worried glance. "You're going to work yourself into an early grave," he comments. "Seriously. Why don't you finish up and come for drinks?" he waggles his eyebrows in temptation. "The whole accounting team are coming. And maybe those hot girls from HR."

Kyle barely looks up from his computer screen, tilting his head in an imperceptible fashion. "No. I gotta get this done. I need the weekend free," he says vaguely.

Jack blows air out his cheeks and runs a hand through his hair. "Fine, whatever. But if I come in Monday and find your corpse still sitting in that chair… I'm not gonna be happy," he jokes, a small tinge of genuine concern creeping in. "Tell Lauren I say hi."

Kyle taps away absently and then looks up for a second. "Lauren…?"

"Uh… yeah? I thought you said you were keeping the weekend free…?" Jack responds, looking a little stumped. "I figured you were… seeing her," he explains, suddenly feeling a little awkward.

Kyle scrunches up his eyes. "Oh, fuck. Yeah."

"A-alright, man. Take… take it easy," Jack nods, sending Kyle a last strange glance before he heads out the door.

As soon as he's gone, Kyle finds his head falling into his hands.

He'd been so busy working and working to try and free his weekend up – he'd completely forgotten that he was supposed to be seeing Lauren this week, to break things off.

Which meant that he'd probably have to spend his hard-earned time off dealing with that, instead.

"Crap," he says to nobody in particular.

At 11pm, he finishes work. He gets home fifteen minutes later, and ten minutes after that he falls asleep.

His phone rings five times and then rings out, but he's too fast asleep to answer it.

* * *

Kenny hasn't had a job since Wendy's fired him for stealing burger patties, so 'TGIF' doesn't really have the same meaning. It was pretty much like any other day – and Kenny intended to spend it in his usual way – by wandering around, causing trouble.

Not intentionally, mind you. Kenny didn't actually _want_ to cause people pain; in fact, he was one of the few genuinely good guys who still lived in South Park. It was just that wherever he went, trouble seemed to follow.

It didn't help that he was easily bored.

That tended to happen when one was immortal. It tended to take away the excitement; the _je ne sais quoi_… the feeling that anything might happen.

Kenny just does what he feels like, 24/7. Sometimes, that means having a job. Sometimes, it means letting Stan pay all the rent while he cavorts around town, taking drugs and occasionally sleeping with girls.

Recently, he'd been spending a lot of time with one particular girl. That wasn't usually his style – not that Kenny wasn't respectful of women, he was. It was just that women usually weren't particularly interested in _him_, outside of a casual sex relationship, anyway. He didn't have prospects, money, a car, an education…

All he had going for him was that he was a good, easygoing guy.

He feels like he makes that work pretty well for him, all things considering.

Today, on an uncharacteristically rainy Friday, he finds himself wandering round the rather gloomy town that he had grown up in. On his travels, he happens to bump into a certain Craig Tucker skulking around the alley near George Street.

Craig hadn't changed much since school, it was true. Despite a rather intense and crudely-drawn homosexual relationship with Tweek, he didn't seem to have much in the way of an actual life.

Kenny liked him, despite this.

Here was the thing that Kenny liked about Craig – he was completely lacking in any ability to bullshit _anyone_. He was the bluntest guy that Kenny knew, a trait which had caused him to have little success both in his career and with the ladies.

Kenny has a theory that everybody still in South Park at their age has some dysfunctional quality that has caused them to stagnate, and that… _brusqueness_ happened to be Craig's fatal flaw.

Craig now ran the town's newsagents by day and by night, was pretty much Kenny's drug-dealer. As well as being one of the only people in town who still _took_ drugs, he had a no-nonsense, 'fuck you' attitude about him that made him pretty hard to screw over.

Kenny vaguely remembers that trait coming in handy during a certain accidental visit to Peru.

Nevertheless, this random encounter is how he manages to find himself taking up one of his favourite activities - sitting on the floor of the stock room at the back of Craig's shop, lighting up a giant blunt.

"That's good shit," he breathes out, a smile playing on his lips as his eyes close in enjoyment. "It was a good idea to hotbox this place."

Craig snorts. "You say that every time. You even say that about shit skunk weed."

Kenny sniggers and leans his back against the shelving unit he's propped up against, passing the joint to Craig. "Yeah, well. There's nothing wrong with having a positive outlook. You should try it."

Craig laughs and shakes his head, trying not to roll his eyes as he takes a toke. "Whatever, Kenny," he replies absently.

Kenny doesn't know what to say, so instead, he just tells Craig the story about ending up in hell from choking on ketamine, the week prior. He decides to go into rather intricate detail, and to make it worse, he's stoned, so he keeps going off down unrelated tangents. He tells Craig about Gary, the new guy – about Karen, about the line to get in. He even throws in a little boast – for his own his own sake, about how he's been screwing Bebe for about a month now.

After he's done, Craig actually looks rather impressed. He doesn't say anything for a ltitle while, just lights up in peace. A few minutes of silence pass by, and then Craig starts to speak. "You're so damn lucky that you're immortal, you know that?"

Kenny almost chokes in surprise. "Uh, how so?"

"Because! You can live life however you want. You live life on your terms. I respect that."

Kenny frowns a little, bemused. "What does that mean?" he asks, wondering if he should be offended by that remark.

"No, nothing," Craig shrugs. "Just that… well, you don't have anything to worry about. No cares. It's awesome," he sighs. "I kinda wish I was that way."

Kenny frowns, taking the joint back from Craig and taking another large hit. After he's inhaled the maximum capacity that his lungs can handle, he exhales and opens his mouth to speak. "Aren't you?" he asks. "That way?"

Craig shakes his head with a dry laugh. "No."

There's an awkward silence, and Kenny wracks his slow brain to think of something to say.

"Hey, how is Tweek? Are you guys still a thing?" he asks, more out of the necessity to break the tension rather than a real vested interest in Craig's relationship status.

Craig's face morphs into something bitter, and he avoids Kenny's eyes. "He left."

"Left…?" Kenny asks, curious. "Where did he go?"

"He moved to Boulder. Wanted to start his own business, like his parents," Craig shrugs, as if it didn't matter. "And we broke up."

Kenny's eyes flicker down. "When did that happen?"

"A couple of months ago," Craig replies, nonchalantly. "It was fine. It was what I expected, to be honest."

Kenny shakes his head, a little shocked. After all, Tweek and Craig had been an unofficial, on-off couple throughout all of high school, and a little of middle school. "I'm… I'm really sorry, dude," he says, wondering if he should put a hand on Craig's shoulder, or something. He settles for a mildly sympathetic glance.

"Don't be," Craig says harshly, surprising himself. "He asked me to move with him. I said no."

Kenny blinks twice, his brain rushing to catch up with what he's just heard. "He… asked you to move with him? Why did you said no?"

"Because," Craig snorts, taking another hit. "_Look_ at me. I take drugs. I hang out with people like you, and Stan. I work _here_. I'm not meant for a city like Boulder. I'm meant for a deadbeat, shitty, Podunk, backwater town like this one. I'm not going anywhere." Craig pulls on his hat strings nervously. "Tweek… he's going somewhere. I couldn't… I couldn't hold him back anymore. It wouldn't have been fair."

"Well, shit, that's…" Kenny struggles for the right word, and then sighs, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. "Depressing." He settles on, eventually.

Craig shrugs. "No. It's just reality. People don't leave this town, not many people. Think about it – how many people do you know that have actually left? Tweek. Wendy. Broflovski. Token. Eric Cartman," he raises an eyebrow. "That's it. You can count that on one hand."

Kenny frowns, leaning forward as Craig hands him the last stub left of the joint and taking in a large inhale. "I guess," he replies.

"Those guys were super driven. They were _always_ going to leave. They were smart. The rest of us? You, me, Stan, Clyde, Bebe, Jimmy, whoever the fuck else…" he trails off, staring miserably at a packet of bread on the shelf behind Kenny's head. "We're doomed to a life of mediocrity."

Kenny bites his lip. "C'mon, man. _You_ could leave."

"Where would I go?" he looks up at Kenny, sharpish. "I don't mind it here. It's got everything I need, here. Why would I try to 'make it' in some city? I don't know jack about living in a city. I don't know shit about anything that would make me successful."

Kenny groans and massages his forehead. "I feel obligated to tell you that this conversation is bumming me out."

Craig laughs, a small and hard little '_heh'_ sound. "M

y point is that you're lucky. You can escape to hell wherever you want. The rest of us?" he pauses, shooting Kenny a meaningful look. "We're stuck in purgatory. And it's called South Park."

After he's done with Craig, Kenny doesn't know exactly where else to go. He remembers that Stan's been pretty depressed about something or rather this week – probably Kyle related – and pulls out his phone to call the guy.

It's when he looks at his phone that he sees that he has about twenty unread messages from Bebe, all dated around fifteen minutes ago.

He also has three missed calls.

One of the messages says 'call me when you see this', so Kenny dials Bebe's number and waits with the phone against his face.

It rings once, and she picks up.

"Hey," he starts casually. "How's it going?"

"Fine, fine." she replies, brusquely. "Look, are you busy now?"

"I'm always free," Kenny replies truthfully. "What's going on?" he asks, mostly because the tone of her voice suggests that she's less than pleased right now.

"We _need_ to talk. Meet me at Denny's," she says quickly. "In five minutes."

Kenny's pulse races as he wonders what the hell could have happened between now and the last time he was at her place. He hauls ass to Denny's, because he can't stand not knowing, and figures that he has time for a quick cigarette at the entrance before she gets there.

He's halfway through it when he spots her through the window, already in one of the booths. She's sitting bolt upright, he notices.

He taps on the glass to get her attention and gives her a little wave, but he's met with one of the sternest looks that he's ever seen her give.

He frowns in bafflement and stubs the rest of his cigarette out – bemoaning the waste of money – before heading inside.

"Hey," he calls, strolling over to the table that she's sitting down on. She gestures for him to sit down, but she doesn't stand up to greet him. "What's going on? I was just hanging out with Craig… I didn't see your call-"

"Kenny," she says quickly. He plonks himself down in the seat opposite.

"What's up?" he asks. He notices that her eyes are all red and puffy, like she's been crying. "Seriously, Bebe, what's going on? Did I do something?"

He's paranoid from the weed. He must be.

Tears spring to her eyes again – now that _can't_ just be paranoia – and he's forced to confront the situation.

She places her hands on the table in front of her, like she's waiting for him to put his on top, or something, but Kenny's never been much for meaningless gestures.

Until he realises that there's something in her hands.

A white stick.

_No, it can't be._

_Could it be?_

"Bebe," he says quietly, his eyes flickering from the thing on table to up to her ghostly face. "C'mon. You're joking," his voice comes out like some sort of desperate plea.

She shakes her head. "Do I look like I'm joking right now, McCormick? Just _look_ at it."

He does; he looks right at that stupid thing. The stupid white stick with the stupid positive plus sign showing right there in stupid stained blue ink.

And then he faints.

Well, moreover, he dies of shock instantly.

* * *

**I've decided to take action with the plot of this story!**


	16. a fifth of whiskey

**Oh my god, I cannot write worth a damn at the moment. Have this.**

* * *

Stan stares at the clock at work, watching the hours tick by minute by minute. It's excruciating, waiting for work to finish when you know that there's nothing particularly good about going home, either. He's just waiting to get drunk. Well, _more_ drunk.

Five days.

It's been five whole days since he left Denver, and Stan has yet to receive a single text from Kyle.

The first two days, he'd tried to ignore his phone and busied himself with work, and drinking. The third day, he'd gotten Kenny to send him a message to confirm that his phone was working. Day four had been particularly trying – especially because Kenny had been visiting Bebe's place just outside town all evening, so he'd had nothing to distract him from the sour and persistent feeling of rejection in his gut. Nothing except eight beers and some shitty cartoons.

He'd hardly slept. Something in him was too anxious, too full of dread.

On Thursday evening he'd been so desperate to feel normal again that he'd downed about half a bottle of whiskey in an attempt to lull himself to sleep. It had worked, in a sense.

And then – day five had arrived.

Stan woke up in a pretty bad state. Firstly, he was hungover, which was never a good look at work on a Friday morning. Not only that, but he had a pretty stonking emotional hangover from five whole days of emotional turmoil – none of which had put him in a particularly good mood.

The first thing he does is check the alarm clock by his bed, which apparently is a mistake, because as it turns out it's 9:45 and he's slept in late. He leaps out of bed and throws on some scrunched-up clothes from the day before. Not before grabbing the half-empty bottle of whiskey from behind his end table and taking a long, hard swig.

He returns the cap and for good measure, places it in his bag.

Y'know, just in case.

Dutch courage, that's what he tells himself. This is how _real_ men deal with their feelings, that's what his father always taught him. Real men didn't cry, they didn't complain. Real men drink to forget their troubles.

His troubles… what _are_ his troubles? As he sits behind his desk, head firmly in his hands, he tries to mentally get a grip of himself.

_Kyle hasn't called._

Is that all? Why the hell has that thought got him so stressed?

It's because

Kenny's had still been in bed.

He's probably still there now, Stan muses. What a life, spending all day in bed, or doing drugs. Kenny didn't know how good he had it. Uncomplicated. Easygoing.

Straight.

"Fuck," he groans to himself. Is _that_ what this is? Pent-up gay angst? At his age? He stares blankly at his reflection in his black computer screen, trying to uncover the mysteries of his own mind. It's a charade. He knows _exactly _what's wrong.

What's wrong is that he's an _idiot_. A complete and utter dolt; a moron; an imbecile. Why did hanging out with Kyle make him feel like he was in high school again? In school, it was always him who cared more. It was always him who would skip class to hang out with Kyle, it was him who had stupidly wanted to kiss him, and it was him who had been dropped in a split second when Kyle felt uncomfortable.

And now they're adults. And Stan has all these stupid feelings, whereas Kyle clearly couldn't give a shit.

"Woah, who died?" comes a snarky tone from a few metres to his right. The voice effectively ends Stan's perpetual cycle of self-moping, and he looks up sharply. His blurry eyes attempt to focus as he makes the shape out to be none other than his colleague, Rebecca.

"Hey," he says hoarsely in response. "What's up?"

She stares at him, eyes wide and concerned. "You look like fresh anus, Stan. Is everything really okay?"

"Thanks," he snorts sarcastically, spinning on his chair to face her and then turning a little green at the motion. "I'm actually fine," he adds with a grin. "Hungover; that's all."

He expects her to laugh, or something, but she shakes her head instead. "Hungover? Again?" she wonders. "How many times this week have you been out drinking? You've been hungover every single day," she informs him, her voice flat and lifeless.

She's disappointed. No - worse. She's _concerned_.

"I don't need this," he says defensively, beginning to turn away. "I have work to do."

"I'm serious, Stan. Patel wants you in his office. You were over an hour late this morning. Why do you think I'm over here? He told me to fetch you."

Stan scowls, quickly running a hand through his greasy black hair. "Why can't he just get me himself? He's not that busy…" he grumbles, standing up and shoving his phone in his back pocket. "Guess I better go deal with it," he sighs, heading out of his cubicle.

Rebecca smells a whiff of alcohol as he passes her by. She opens her mouth to say something as he walks on past her to their bosses office, but then bites her lip.

It's not her place, she tells herself. Besides. There's nothing she can do to change the facts. Stan was clearly unfit for work, and it wasn't her place to intervene. She'd been down that road too many times.

That's why she lets him go past.

Still. She'd miss working with him. He was funny, and there weren't many funny people in a miserable place like this one.

* * *

"Over two hours late. You've missed five hours of works due to unexplained absences over the last two weeks alone, Mr Marsh." His boss reads from a sheet of paper in front of him, barely looking up to meet Stan's eye.

Stan coughs a little awkwardly. "I'm sorry, I'll… I'll do overtime next week."

Mr Patel shakes his head imperceptibly and taps the papers in front of him, straightening them. "You look a mess. I expect my employees to show up for work presentable and –" he sniffs the air in a somewhat judgemental manner. "Hygienic."

Stan frowns and crosses his hands over his chest. "This feels like a personal attack," he comments drily, his voice edging over to sarcasm very slowly.

"I assure you, Mr Marsh, my intentions are nothing but professional. It is true that you are a good worker, and you get results. The other employees here seem to like you. But you must understand the predicament that you put me in." Mr Patel continues to use his most grating, dispassionate voice. Stan feels himself getting riled up despite himself, biting down on his lip hard to keep from objecting. "What would you do in my position?"

"Give me a raise?" he probes, his mouth talking before his brain kicks into gear. He winces as Mr Patel just tuts and shakes his head. Probably a bad idea to have that whiskey this morning, he derides. "Sorry."

"Now Stan," he switches to the first-name, suddenly looking up from his papers. "I'm a fair guy. I can look past a little absence. I can look past the silly games, and accents, all that stuff. I can even look past looking scruffy," he lists, giving Stan another judgemental once-over. "But I cannot tolerate showing up for work drunk."

There's a resounding silence. Stan hears his heart beating in his chest. The accusation takes all the wind out of his lungs and he doesn't have any words left to defend himself. Ironically, he almost feels himself sober up a little.

Mr Patel clears his throat, bored of waiting for a response. "I'm sorry, Stan. I truly am. I wish that there was something else I could do; another choice I could make. But I'm a manager, and I have to do what is best for my business."

"So… what?" Stan chokes out, finally able to say something.

"It is with my deepest regret that I must inform you that… we will be letting you go. Effective immediately."

Stan's stomach crashes to the floor. "P-please, Adi… don't fire me," he suddenly manages to spit out, his voice small and pathetic. "God, I'm so sorry. I'll never fuck up again. I just… I just…" he trails off, his brain scrambling to come up with an excuse. "I'll do everything right. Please don't-"

"You will have one month's severance. Given the circumstances, I cannot offer you a letter of recommendation. And you can consider this your exit interview."

Stan's teeth jitter. "B-but-"

Mr Patel's face suddenly softens as he passes Stan a form to fill out.

Stan stares down at it, and then back up at his soon-to-be-ex-boss. He doesn't say a word, but stands up suddenly, angry. He kicks his chair backwards and snatches up the form as a final act of rageful defiance, glaring at Mr Patel.

He spins on his heel, walking towards the door and wondering how on earth he's going to tell Rebecca, when he hears his name called out.

"Stan," comes the voice, softer, this time. Stan whips his head round to face his boss again, still speechless. For whatever reason, the man suddenly looks more sympathetic than Stan has ever seen him before. He's wringing his hands as he speaks, and something about him seems suddenly sincere. "I really am dreadfully sorry. I consider you a friend, Stanley, so this is very regretful for me," he offers up a tepid apology, observing Stan shrewdly from above his glasses. He clears his throat and continues. "I… lost a family member to alcoholism."

Stan breaks out in a cold sweat at the word, unwelcome images of his late dad flashing through his mind. "Adi, I _swear_ I'm not an alcoholic-"

Mr Patel just smiles, his eyes reflecting that same look of pity. "I hope that you find your way onto a better path, Stanley. I sincerely do," he says, standing up from his desk and walking to the closed door, pushing it open for Stan to leave. "If you ever need any career advice, or help… I'll be happy to offer it. So long as you are willing to put in the effort," he hesitates. "Goodbye, Stan."

He falters for a second, wondering if he should offer a 'thank you' or even a goodbye, but he decides not to. In fact, he doesn't make eye contact with anyone on his way out of the office, barely stopping to collect his belongings before he bustles out the front door of the building.

He takes his breaths in gasps; it feels like somebody's reached inside his chest and has caved a big gaping hole there, where his organs should be.

Something's suddenly been hollowed out of him. Luckily, he knows exactly how to fill it.


	17. a bit of foreshadowing

**I love writing Satan. He's a blast.**

* * *

"Woah," are Kenny's first words when he wakes up in Hell again. He scratches his head, looking around in confusion. "Twice in one week. That's bad, even for me."

He's not talking to anyone in particular, mostly because he seems to have come to in some sort of waiting room. He's alone, bar from some truly terrible kitsch furniture and a very loud wall clock. He hums to himself, unsure what to do. It's not _unusual_ for him to wake up in strange places in hell – he doesn't always transport to the same place – so while he's not exactly sure where exactly he is, he's not overly surprised.

He stands up; brushes himself off. "Hello?" he calls out, hearing only the echoing ring of his own voice coming back to him. "Anyone there?"

He doesn't get a reply, so he takes a look around him. The room he's in is perfectly pleasant, bar from the decor. There's a cheap looking leather couch to one side; a potted plant; a pile of magazines.

He suddenly recognises it as the waiting room for Satan's office, after inspecting a little closer. It was the room that you went to if it wasn't decided whether you had been bad enough for hell, or good enough for heaven. It was a medium room; a processing place.

There was no doors, either. You just had to wait until you were at the front of the queue – sometimes Satan could have a pretty packed schedule, and it could be months. Hence the magazines.

Kenny wonders why he's ended up here, of all places.

"Satan?" he calls, but for some reason, his voice is all muffled. "I'm here! What do you want from me?"

A deep rumbling voice coming from thin air replies. "Kenneth McCormick," the voice rumbles menacingly, and then seems to do a sort of vocal double take. "O-oh, Kenny. You again."

"Hey Satan," he huffs. "You mind telling me why I ended up here?" he asks the air, a little annoyed. "And quit doing the invisible act. It's me, ok? You can drop it."

There's a small 'pop' noise and Satan's massive hulking red form appears in front of the couch. "Hello," he calls.

Kenny nods his greetings and Satan holds up a finger. "Ooh, hold on."

He pops out of vision again, and then comes to with another 'pop', this time clutching a bottle of wine and two glasses. He grimaces at Kenny. "Hey, hon. We've got a lot to talk about. You're going to want to sit down for this, okay?"

Kenny parks his butt comfortably onto the leather armchair propped up against the corner wall and clasps his hands together. "This is all very dramatic," he comments blithely, sending Satan a rather scathing glance. "Even for you. What's up?" he gladly accepts a glass of wine from Satan, who pours one out for each of them. Taking a sip, he sits back in his chair. "Does Danny want to get back together or something?"

Satan shakes his head just an inch, scratching his stubble a little sheepishly. "I wish," he sighs heavily. "No, this is about you."

"I'm waiting."

"You don't remember anything from before you died?"

"I never do."

"Okay, well. Uh… it seems like you're going to be a father pretty soon. Like in eight and a half months soon," he coughs, trying to gauge Kenny's reaction. "So, uh. Thought I would let you know. And… well, we can talk about it. But after that, I'm going to send you back. Because I think you need to talk this out with the Stevens girl."

Kenny's chest hammers. "She's pregnant," he says in a hoarse whisper, grabbing his sternum. "For sure?"

Satan nods. "Uh-huh, seems that way."

Kenny runs a hand through his hair. "Well, fuck," he mutters, eyeing up his company. "Isn't there anything you can do about it?"

Satan blinks, taken aback. "Uh, no. I may be the Prince of Darkness, but I draw a line at murdering unborn babies," he shakes his head, reaching over and placing a hand on Kenny's shoulder. "This is something that you've got to deal with, hon."

Kenny bites his lip, staring at the floor. "I'd have thought you'd be more pro-choice…"

"I am pro-choice," Satan shrugs. "But it has to be the mother's choice. I'm not an interventionist – leave that schtick to the guys up there," he points upwards wryly. "Look, if you need a minute… I understand."

"I don't know how this could have happened…" Kenny rests his head in his hands. "How?"

Satan splutters. "Are you seriously asking me to explain the miracle of conception to you? Or is that rhetorical?"

"Rhetorical."

"Good. Look, I know this is hard news. I get it, I do. Nobody wants to have to deal with an unwanted pregnancy, especially not at your age. But if she wants to keep this kid… well, you've made your bed. You're stuck to this thing, and you supplied the glue."

Kenny groans. "No…"

Satan sends him a sympathetic glance. "I'm sorry. Can I get you a drink or anything?"

Kenny looks up briefly from his hands. "I wouldn't mind a shot of vodka," he mutters.

"I meant more like, green tea…" Satan mumbles, but then rolls his eyes. He snaps his fingers and a whole bottle of vodka appears in his hand. He passes it over to Kenny. "Look, I'm meant to be on a cleanse right now. But I'll look the other way if you want to take a few swigs."

Kenny accepts the bottle gratefully and proceeds to tip it up to his lips, taking a few horrid, caustic glugs. His throat burns as he gasps, placing the bottle back on the ground. "Jesus, that stuff is even worse in the afterlife."

"What do you expect? We're in hell, sweetie, not Martha's freaking Vineyard."

Kenny feels like this is a fair point, and he doesn't say anything. He just sits with his fingers clenching and unclenching in and out of his messy blonde hair.

There's a short silence, and then Kenny speaks.

"Do you… want to talk about it?" Satan asks, taking a seat next to Kenny on the couch.

He pauses for a while, then speaks. "Is it like me?" he says in a quiet voice, almost too quiet for Satan to hear.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," Kenny says through his teeth, his tone flat and annoyed "Is it… immortal?" he clarifies, a little sharply.

Satan sucks a gasp of air in through his teeth. "Oh, Kenny. Hon, I wish I could tell you. But we _can't_ know until it dies for the first time," he pauses, gauging Kenny's reaction. "I still don't fully understand how is it that you can keep coming back. We knew it was something to do with that cult that your parents joined, but…" he swallows. "I have no idea whether that will affect your children, or your children's children."

"Shit," Kenny curses, and kicks the wall. "Ow."

Satan shoots him an apologetic glance, biting his lip and tilting his head to one side curiously. "Would that bother you? If the kid turned out to be an immortal?"

Kenny bites his lip. "Growing up sucked, but I've made my peace with it now," he reassures Satan, but he's not done. "But it's no way for a kid to grow up," he glances up at Stan, a lump forming in his throat which he's forced to swallow down, hard. "I don't want any kid having the life I've had. Nobody ever gave a shit about me. Nobody ever had to, did they?"

"Kenny, I-" Satan begins to interject, but Kenny cuts him off firmly.

"No, dude. No. I don't _want_ that for anyone else. Especially not a kid. _My_ kid," he groans, covering his mouth with his hand. "Oh my God, I really screwed the pooch here, didn't I?"

Satan's eyes crinkle with sympathy and he scoots a few inches closer to the boy. "She does look like a poodle with all that frizzy hair. Girl needs to find a pair of straighteners!" he chuckles, but Kenny doesn't crack a smile at all. He frowns, staring at the messy shag carpet. Satan scoots a little closer to Kenny and places one giant, red arm on his shoulder comforting. "Hey, at least people remember now. That's gotta be better, right?"

Kenny nods, but his mind is far away. "There's shit I can do about any of this," he admits, suddenly looking up; eyes intense and fiery. "So you have to promise me something."

"Anything."

"If you have _any_ say in it at all… please… I don't want him to be like me. I don't want him to grow _up_ like me. I want… I want it to be better. Normal," he pauses. "Please. If you have any choice at all, I…" he trails off, overcome with emotion.

"I understand," Satan nods. "I'll do everything I can, Kenny."

The two immortals share a look. "Thanks," Kenny mumbles, scratching his head. "Hey. How long do I have this time?"

Satan smiles wistfully and his eyes flicker to the big ugly clock hanging on the wall. He clears his throat and raises an eyebrow. "You know I've gotta send you back, Ken."

"Shit," Kenny's face turns white. "Can't I just hang out here for a little while longer? Please?"

Satan shrugs. "You have to deal with this. Trust me; you'll both be grateful one day."

He reaches a hand out towards Kenny's shoulder and gives a hard shove downwards. Something tumbles around him; the walls fall in and gravity catches up to him.

The first thing he notices, oddly enough, is that it's suddenly a lot cooler. The humidity has dropped by about 50%, and there's actually a nice cool breeze on his skin.

Then, his eyes focus and he realises that he's back on Earth – Satan had managed to send him back, somehow. Not only that, but he's in the exact same moment that he'd left. The familiar smell of fried food hits his nostrils as slowly, his senses start to wake up.

His heart stutters as he stares at the person in front of him, finding himself unable to find the words to speak.

"Kenny?" she says.

* * *

"Kenny?" she calls, concern written on her face. "Are you okay?"

He grabs his chest and inhales. "Yeah, I'm fine," he mutters. "I just died. It's cool."

Bebe stares at him, hard. "Um…"

"No, no. It's okay. I just… I think I just died of shock, I guess," he splutters out, the concept sounding a little ridiculous now that he's saying it. "Or like… terminal worldview collapse." She continues to stare at him, almost past him, like he's a ghost.

"Uh. Bebe?" he waves in front of her face. "Am I a ghost?"

She snaps out of it and glares at him, swatting his hand out of her line of vision. "No! Stop fucking around! This is really serious!" she chastises him, and then slams her hand against her forehead. "Goddamnit. I knew this was a mistake."

She angrily gathers her belongings together and shoves them into her purse, sending him a furious look as she does.

"Bebe, come on." he calls feebly. "_Stop_. I was just… oh, for fuck's sake. I was just disoriented. I just died, remember?" he snaps. Well, at least as much as someone as docile as Kenny actually had the capacity to snap at someone.

"You die all the time!" she snarls, standing up from the table. "All I wanted was for you just to take something seriously for once! This is just as much yours as mine!" she accuses, jabbing a finger at his face, tears springing to her eyes. She wipes away at them meekly with her forefinger.

"Please don't…" he stands up, trying to comfort her. He puts his hands on her shoulders, but she shrugs them off. "Oh, come on. It's going to be okay. Bebe…"

"It's not! It's not going to be okay!" she yells.

People from around them are starting to look over at the table, and Kenny feels mildly self-conscious. He lowers his voice drastically and tries to reason with her. "Would you quit yelling? Jesus, woman," he mutters, pinching the skin between his nose and forehead rather sharply as his head begins to throb.

Bebe stares at him, wounded. Before he can say another word, she whips round on her heel and stomps out of the restaurant, her heels click-clacking on the linoneum with each and every step.

He considers calling after her, or even chasing her, but doesn't.

He sits back down in his booth and lets his head fall into his hands, his fingers coursing through his dirty hair as he swears to himself. "Fuck, Kenny. This is some fucking deep doo-doo you're in, here."

He sits there for a couple minutes – maybe ten? Fifteen? The time flies as his mind shudders through a whole myriad of horrible scenarios of him, as a father, messing up his kid's life.

His chest pounds when his phone makes a beeping noise in his pocket.

He pulls it out a little hesitantly, wondering if it was going to be Bebe, texting him to sort things out. Would that be good or bad?

He never decides, because after checking it, it's a text from Stan.

_so I'm getting blackout drunk tonight, u in?_

He stares at the text for a couple of seconds, the last half an hour running rampant in his mind. He wonders, for a second, what he should do. What would a good father do?

First of all, he wouldn't get drunk with Stan tonight. He'd probably go and check on Stan to see if he was okay, and then make sure that Stan didn't get totally legless. And then he'd go and check on Bebe, and apologize. Tell her that it was going to be okay, and that he was going to take care of her. Get a proper job; quit bumming around and taking drugs and start taking responsibility.

He'd get an apartment, not that shithole that Stan and him currently called home.

He sighs, his head still resting in his hands.

He should do all those things. He should do them tonight. It would be the best thing, probably, for everyone.

He pulls out his phone and sends a cursory text to Stan.

_Sure dude, I'm in._


End file.
